


you think you love a boy

by jostxnneil



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, I've lost control of my life, Internalized Homophobia, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Langst, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Burn, That's like, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, and doing things that are less than legal, apparently, chapter one is the only chapter during high school, keith is a foster kid, klangst, okay the illegal stuff, some gay shit, the drug use warning is for weed, the entire fic, the rest are set during lance's sophomore year in college, they spend a lot of time on a roof, they trespass several times, they turn eighteen during the course of the fic, this is uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 76,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13362420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jostxnneil/pseuds/jostxnneil
Summary: Lance met Keith when he was still trying to find his place in the world—he’d spent years hovering somewhere in-between, stuck between being and becoming, and the nights he started spending with Keith were the only times he ever felt grounded.In retrospect, he should've known that those nights could never end well for him.





	1. pretty lies

**Author's Note:**

> the universe conspired to drag up old feelings and this happened  
> i'd apologize but i'm not really sorry  
> the conspiracy started with idfc by blackbear because of course it did

                Lance met Keith when he was still trying to find his place in the world—he’d spent years hovering somewhere in-between, stuck between being and becoming, and the nights he started spending with Keith were the only times he ever felt grounded.

                They went to the same high school. Lance had never really felt anything other than neutral towards Keith—the closest thing to something different was during a summer school trip where they all went canoeing, and during lunch break some of the boys had stripped down to their swim trunks and waded into the shallows of the river to cool off.

                He’d acknowledged, then, that Keith had a very admirable physique. Enviable.

                Attractive.

                Beyond that, they didn’t interact. They had different class schedules and different social circles and neither ever overlapped.

                That changed during a summer night in July, almost exactly a year since the canoeing trip. Lance hadn’t spared a thought for Keith since.

                He was sure Keith had never spared him a thought at all.

                At the beginning of the summer before his junior year of high school, Lance’s family moved to a bigger house nearer to the elementary school—within sight of it, so that the youngest kids could all walk to school in the mornings, and the older kids could catch the bus from the elementary school to the middle or high school.

                The bigger house meant that most of the older kids got their own rooms, including Lance—El and Leo were the exception, because they’d shared a room since they were babies and felt more comfortable together than apart. Twins are weird like that sometimes.

                It was nice, most of the time. Privacy is still rare in such a big family, but he got to have it more than he ever did before.

                And yet…without his youngest siblings sneaking into his bed in the middle of the night, he couldn’t sleep.

                He’d tried nearly everything—noise-cancelling headphones, a sleep mask, keeping a strict routine before bed.

                Sometimes it worked. Mostly it didn’t.

                Which is how he found himself wandering around the neighborhood late at night for most of the summer, trying to walk his insomnia away under the quiet light of the stars, kept company only by the sound of his footsteps on the asphalt.

                His mom might’ve noticed, if they were still living in the old house, but as it is, his bedroom is nearly on the opposite side of the house as hers and his window doesn’t have a screen, so climbing out into the yard is easy.

                Summer nights are the best. There’s usually a breeze, and the dark sky lets the world cool off enough so that he doesn’t melt into a puddle on the ground.

                The quiet is what he likes best. They’re never silent—always the distant sound of cars driving past on the main road through their small town, or nocturnal animals rustling in the bushes, or locusts chirping in the trees.

                It calms him.

                Most nights, he finds his way to the playground in front of the elementary school. He’ll swing, or climb on top of the tallest plastic tower to lay down and stare up at the sky.

                The loneliness gets to him, just a little. Not every night. But enough.

                But then comes the night that he arrives at the playground to find someone already there, swaying gently back and forth on a swing, just a shadowy silhouette staring down over the town lights.

                “Hello?” he says, hesitant. The silhouette on the swing startles, and jerks around to squint at him in the dim lighting. He’s only mildly surprised when he recognizes who it is. “Keith?”

                “How do you know my name?” Keith Kogane demands, standing from the swing in one smooth motion that somehow comes across as intimidating.

                Lance, for his part, only rolls his eyes and takes a seat on the other swing. The nerves he felt when he first realized who he’d stumbled across in the dark dissipate almost entirely in a wave of irritation. “We go to the same school, Mullet Boy.”

                Keith’s hand raises to his hair, almost subconsciously. His voice is defensive when he replies. “My hair just grows like this.”

                Lance raises a skeptical eyebrow, but decides, in the face of his exhaustion, that it’s not worth pursuing.

                From what he knows of Keith, he isn’t the type of guy that he’d get along with well.

                “Oh, wait, I know you. You’re Lance, right? Your brother Toni is on the soccer team,” Keith realizes.

                “You mean besides the fact that we’re in the same grade and we’ve had English together for three years? Yeah, I’m Toni’s brother.”

                “Sorry,” Keith says. He almost sounds guilty. “I hang out with the guys on the soccer team a lot. And I don’t really pay attention in English.”

                “It’s fine,” Lance replies. “I haven’t exactly done much to distinguish myself as anything other than Toni’s brother. Or Catalina’s brother, or Clara’s, or—well, you get it.”

                Keith shrugs. “You’re still your own person. It shouldn’t matter that people know them better than you.”

                That surprises Lance a little. He risks a glance over at Keith’s face, and—his expression is genuine. He looks like he means what he’s saying.

                “What are you doing at a playground in the middle of the night?” he asks, eventually, and Keith’s lips curve into a smile.

                “I could ask you the same thing,” he says.

                “I asked first,” Lance points out.

                “True,” Keith acknowledges. He sits back down on his swing, right next to Lance, and goes back to watching the blinking of the town lights spread out below them. “Wanted out of the house for a bit, I guess. This seemed as good a place as any to go to get away. You?”

                “Couldn’t sleep,” Lance says. It’s an honest answer. “I’d rather be out here than staring at my ceiling.”

                Keith nods, still not looking at Lance. He takes the chance to really look at him for the first time in nearly a year.

                He’s wearing head to toe black—not really a surprise, although Lance has a feeling that he used to wear a bit more of a variety when it came to colors. For some reason, he’s wearing long pants and a leather jacket even in the middle of summer. It might not exactly be scorching out, but…he can’t be comfortable in so many layers.

                His hair is a lot longer than it used to be, and a huge mess, like he let it grow out because he stopped caring about it and hasn’t felt bothered to figure out how to deal with long hair. Lance’s fingers itch to brush out the tangles and pull it back into a ponytail—there’s no way Keith can see very well with all that hair in his face like that.

                He pushes the feeling away. They fall into a silence—it doesn’t feel exactly uncomfortable, but more like they’re waiting for something.

                “Why here?” he finally asks, breaking the quiet. When Keith glances at him in confusion, he clarifies. “Why the elementary school? Why not somewhere else?”

                Keith shrugs, and then looks back to the view. “I like being up high. The elementary school, being on a hill and all, is higher than the rest of the town. Makes it feel different than anywhere else, you know? Separate.”

                Lance nods as though he understands—maybe he does, a little. “Have you ever been on the roof?”

                When Keith looks at him, there’s something shining in his eyes—excitement, maybe. Mischief, probably. Curiosity…definitely.

                That’s how it starts.     

* * *

 

                Climbing the roof of the elementary school isn’t easy. Usually it takes Lance at least three tries to get his footing right and ten minutes between each attempt to convince himself to do it again.

                Somehow, with Keith hovering at his shoulder, dark eyes bright with interest, he gets it on the first try, scrambling up the brick wall and hauling himself over the edge through sheer force of will.

                There’s some sort of circular metal vent that sticks out of the wall right next to a corner—he’s learned that if he gets it right, he can use that and the leverage of the corner to sort of Spiderman his way up to the ledge of the roof.

                When he looks back down, he half expects to see Keith eyeing the wall with uncertainty, but instead his entire face has lit up with determination at the challenge in front of him. He doesn’t even notice Lance’s face peering down at him.

                Something about his expression sends a shiver down Lance’s spine.

                “You coming up or nah, Mullet Boy?” he teases, and Keith narrows his eyes and leaps at the wall, angling his feet to find traction on the brick and pushing himself up.

                Lance offers a hand to help him up—he’s surprised when Keith actually takes it.

                He’s even more surprised by the huge grin on Keith’s face as he stands, feet steady underneath him, and regards the wall that he just climbed triumphantly.

                Lance realizes he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Keith smile like that before.

                “C’mon, Spiderman, we’re only halfway there,” he says, and leads the way to the rusty ladder that’ll get them up to the next upper level of the roof. There’s a smaller ladder about half the size of the first after that one, and then they’re at the very top, four floors up from the concrete lot that makes up the ground, and the entire town is spread out below their feet.

                “This is amazing,” Keith breathes, staring out at the lights. “How did you know your way up?”

                “I think it’s been a well-kept secret of certain high school groups for a while now. Val used to come here to smoke with her friends—she showed me how to get up a year or two ago. It’s kept quiet to avoid those of us that use it being found out by the cops, so don’t go telling everyone you know,” Lance warns.

                “I won’t,” Keith promises. “It wouldn’t be the same if everyone knew about it, anyway.”

                “It wouldn’t,” Lance agrees, voice soft. He watches Keith for a moment, feeling something tug at his heart at the sight.

                Instead of acknowledging it, he sits down, letting his legs swing over the edge of the roof, savoring the swooping feeling in his chest that the danger of such a position causes.

                Keith, after barely a second of hesitation, copies him, and they sit there in quiet for a while, enjoying the view.

                They’re closer than he thinks they would be if other people were around.

                “What made you need to get out of the house?” Lance asks. His voice is swallowed by the summer air—the feeling is almost like someone shushing them, pulling the curtains close around their shared night.

                Keith takes a long time to answer. Lance has almost forgotten the question at that point, but he’s not surprised that Keith chooses to answer.

                He’s been told that he’s incredibly easy to talk to. He can’t count the number of secrets he’s been told anymore.

                “Life at home isn’t great,” Keith admits. “You probably know that already, if you’ve heard anything about me besides my name. I’m a foster kid, been bouncing around the system for a few years, and this home has stuck the longest, mostly because Rich and Jan don’t have any interest in me other than the check they get in the mail every month. They have kids of their own, but they’re all in their twenties and thirties, and they used to have a house full of foster kids, too, but as they’ve gotten older they’ve mostly given it up. Since I’m the only one…well, like I said, they don’t have much interest in me, except when I do something they disagree with and they find out about it. The house can get a little suffocating after a while.”

                Lance pauses to ponder a response for a while. “Can’t say I understand the foster kid thing—but the house being suffocating? I get that. Not in the same way, probably, but I have a big family. Four older siblings, four younger, a bunch of cousins and nieces and nephews constantly staying over—after a while, it gets to be a little too much.”

                “You have _eight_ brothers and sisters?” Keith asks, eyes wide.

                Lance laughs. “I get that reaction a lot. Yeah, eight. The four younger are actually half-siblings, although that doesn’t really matter to us. Clara, Cat, Toni, Val, and I are our mom’s kids by her first husband—he died when I was too young to remember him. She married my step-dad a few years later, and they had the twins, El and Leo, along with Gavin and Mariposa. I’m smack in the middle of us all.”

                “How does that even…work?” Keith asks, endearingly confused. “A family that big—wouldn’t it just be chaos all the time?”

                “It absolutely is, but not really in the way you’re thinking. We’ve grown up together—we know each other. It’d be a bit odd if we didn’t work together well at this point. It’s kind of a necessity of growing up in a big family,” Lance explains. “It does get a little lonely sometimes, though.”

                “What do you mean? Don’t you pretty much always have someone to hang out with?”

                “You’d think so,” Lance replies, “but no, not really. Like I said, I’m smack in the middle. Most of my siblings are either old enough that they grew up thinking I was too young to be much fun to play with, or young enough that they’d rather be with the other youngest kids. It doesn’t really help that El and Leo are the next after me, and they don’t usually spend much time with anyone other than each other. And then, with so many people in the house all the time, it’s pretty easy to just fade into the background. You get forgotten about sometimes.”

                “Better than all the time,” Keith mutters. He leans back on his hands, unbothered by the grit of the rooftop, and refocuses on the view. Something softens in his expression. “This night didn’t go the way I was expecting.”

                “Better or worse?” Lance asks, eyebrow raised. Keith glances at him, then up at the star-studded sky.

                “Better,” he finally answers, and Lance smiles, unbothered by the fact that Keith isn’t looking to see it.

                He follows Keith’s gaze to the stars, and they sit there and share secrets in the silence of the night until the sky starts to turn gray with the impending morning.

                Getting down from the roof, as always, is harder than getting up, and Lance stumbles when he drops too soon and feels the shock of the landing in his knees—Keith’s hand settles on his back to steady him, and he can feel the warmth of it through his tank top.

                He tries to ignore the strange feeling in his ribcage that feels a lot like the adrenaline he gets from pushing the limits a little too close to danger.

                They don’t say much on the walk back, and they part ways with a quiet look and a slight nod at the end of the lot.

                But that look feels a lot like a promise.

                He’s exhausted all day, even when they go to the beach, which usually fills him with enough energy to match his youngest siblings in enthusiasm. Valery worries about him—she doesn’t say as much, but he can feel her eyes on him when he settles on the beach to take a nap on the warm sand.

                He doesn’t care.

                That night, he tries to drop into sleep as easily as he did on the beach, surrounded by the sounds of screaming gulls and giggling children, and finds that he can’t.

                The glowing stars on his ceiling aren’t close enough to the real thing to calm the twisted knot in his chest.

                When he climbs out the window and makes his way to the playground, Keith is waiting for him.

                It becomes their thing—not every night, but most nights. When the weather is good, and the skies are clear, and they can sit on the rooftop and speak secrets to each other in soft voices that get lost on the summer breeze.

                Lance starts to think maybe they’re friends. He writes his phone number on Keith’s arm in black pen that bleeds and smudges across his skin, and Keith smiles down at it and promises to text him.

                Mostly Lance texts Keith. Mostly those texts go unanswered.

                But they still have their nights—the rooftop. The playground. Kicking pebbles across asphalt and racing from one end of the soccer field to the other before collapsing in the dew-damp grass and laughing, breathless, two boys visible as nothing more than shadows in the distance to anyone that might look.

                He makes the mistake of thinking it’s enough.

                School starts back up again. They’re juniors. They still have English together, but now both of them usually sleep through it because they keep their grades up and the teacher has a soft spot for them—but always on opposite ends of the room. Keith, at his desk, arms folded and face hidden, and Lance on the broken couch without any legs that sits against the wall, head pillowed on Hunk’s shoulder.

                Lance waves to him when they pass each other in the hallways, enthusiastic as he can get, with a wide grin and the occasional wink because he likes the way it makes Keith’s cheeks flush red.

                Keith waves back, usually, awkward and stilted, but he never stops to talk.

                One night in late August, Lance brings a basketball with him to the elementary school. There’s a plastic basketball hoop that stands off-center in the asphalt parking lot, shaped like a bowl at the top of a pole with three holes that the ball can fall out of it he manages to get it in the top.

                The sound of the ball as it bounces off of the ground, a dull, repetitive _thud,_ makes it easier for him to calm his racing heart when he sees that Keith isn’t there yet.

                He’s been late, occasionally. Every time, Lance wonders if he’s decided to stop showing up entirely.

                They play together that night. Keith is good—not surprisingly, because Keith is good at nearly everything he tries. Something about that makes Lance’s skin feel prickly, especially when Keith ends up entirely too shocked that Lance can actually mostly match him in their game.

                “You should join the soccer team, or some shit,” Keith says one night. They’re on the roof again. “You’re more aggressive than anyone thinks you are. You’d be great at it—it’d probably surprise a lot of people.”

                When he says it, Lance grins and thanks him because he thinks it’s a compliment. Later, he feels irritated at the implication that he’d surprise a lot of people by actually being good at something.

                It’s probably not how Keith meant it. But it’s how Lance takes it.

                Their nights start to turn into something different as they get fewer and far between. Keith mentions that his foster parents are getting shittier the closer that it gets to his eighteenth birthday, and then stops mentioning his home life altogether.

                Instead of sharing secrets, they share cigarettes, blowing smoke at the sky and letting the nicotine take the edge off.

                In October, when the nights are just starting to turn cold enough that the roof isn’t the greatest place to relax and they’re starting to think about how they’re not going to be able to meet once it gets colder, Keith brings a bag of weed and a glass bowl that looks like swirled black and red smoke, and Lance gets high for the first time and giggles about how beautiful the stars are.

                The soft smile on Keith’s face at Lance’s ramblings make his chest feel warm and his thoughts soar even higher, bubbly and lighter than air. He doesn’t mind that the sharp taste of the smoke makes him cough until he gets used to it or the way that his mouth and face go numb—because Keith is smiling and his shoulders are relaxed and his expression is soft for the first time in weeks.

                Winter comes. They call it quits the first night it’s cold enough for snow, with a vague promise to start meeting again when it’s warmer.

                Lance still waves in the hallways. Keith still avoids him whenever he tries to start a conversation.

                With time, and distance, Lance starts to wonder if maybe he was only ever a distraction.

                When he sleeps for more than a few hours at a time, insomnia still present as ever, he dreams about Keith’s laugh, and his red-rimmed eyes, dark and liquid in the shadows of the night.

                He dreams about the walks they’ve taken, the way that Keith’s face looked under the neon lights outside the local bar, how he’d walked up to the group of men and women outside under the awning, smoking, and greeted them all by name.

                He dreams about the night that Keith’s hand found his in the hazy half-light of early morning, and their fingers tangled together as though they were made to fit that way, and then they didn’t talk about it, because that was the unspoken rule of their nights.

                The dream he hates and loves in equal measure is the one about the night he got high for the third time—he didn’t cough this time, and he’d grinned triumphantly at Keith, who’d smiled back and looked almost proud. They’d sat all too close, inhibitions lowered by the high, legs tangled, and Lance had talked with his hands as much as his mouth and there’d been a point when Keith’s eyes had dropped from his to what could only be his lips.

                He wanted to kiss him. In reality—he pulled away, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and spent the rest of the night distant and speaking as minimally as possible.

                In the dream, his lips press to Lance’s, and the kiss is numb and tingly and warm and perfect as Keith’s hands tangle in his hair where it’s starting to grow too long at the nape—and then he wakes up, and he shivers, and he opens the window and tries to breathe the cold winter air deeper into his lungs than is actually possible in the hopes that it’ll clear his mind.

                It doesn’t.

                Sometimes, he’ll grab his coat and a pair of shoes and slip out of the window, only half-aware, and trek up the hill past the elementary school to the Catholic church that stands even higher. There’s a cross on the side of the building that’s always lit by solar-powered lights, and a statue of the Virgin Mary in the front courtyard.

                He doesn’t know why he goes there. His family isn’t Catholic, exactly—his mother is, and has rosary beads that she prays with every Sunday, but they don’t go to church except on holidays like Easter, and sometimes not even then.

                When he was younger, his mother would tell him Bible stories before bed. He used to have nightmares about Abraham and Isaac—awful dreams, where he was Isaac and his biological father, whose face was always an indistinct blur, was Abraham, and he was on the altar to be sacrificed except in the dream God never intervened to stop his death from happening.

                He thinks maybe his mom stopped telling Bible stories because he told her about the nightmares.

                There are benches scattered around the courtyard of the church, and he’ll often sit on one that faces the lit cross and just stare up at it.

                What he does isn’t praying, exactly—he’s not sure that he’s really directing his thoughts towards God, in part because he’s not sure he believes in God, but they’re directed towards something other than himself.

                Sometimes they’re just reflections.

                He’ll close his eyes and think about the dream that won’t go away that’s almost like a nightmare for the way it wakes him—tangled in his sheets, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily and suddenly glad that he has a room to himself.

                Keith’s lips are chapped. He’s noticed that more than once.

                He’ll hold his breath and then heave it out in an exhale that sounds like he was just punched in the gut, watching the fog leave his lips and swirl in the winter air before leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and resting his forehead against his knuckles.

                It probably looks like praying. It’s more like pleading, sitting there and nearly crying and silently mouthing, “ _Please, please, please, please, please,_ ” over and over to himself.

                He’s not sure what he’s asking for. Or—he is, but he shies away from acknowledging it, because that makes it real.

                That makes it true.

                Keith calls him once, at 4am in the middle of February, and he’s slurring his words and obviously drunk and probably high, but he laughs and sounds happier than Lance has heard him in months, so he doesn’t say anything about it.

                He listens to Keith talk about the bike he bought with his own money from the part-time job he works as a dishwasher in the same bar that they’ve walked by together a thousand times—yet this is the first time he’s ever mentioned that he works there.

                Lance tries not to take it to heart.

                Keith stumbles home while he’s on the phone with Lance, from whatever half-trashed trailer he spent the night getting drunk at, and when he collapses into bed and kicks off his shoes, Lance can hear the sheets rustle.

                They just breathe on the phone together for a while, and then Keith breathes what might be, “I miss you,” before hanging up abruptly.

                Keith avoids him even more than usual at school the next week.

                Lance tries not to take that to heart, too.

                In May, he starts going back to the elementary school nearly every night. Keith is never there, until finals week at school, and then he brings a bottle of vodka with him.

                It’s stupid, but Lance has never had much self control around Keith.

                They drink at least half the bottle. It burns going down, and Lance wonders if maybe that’s like Keith—harsh and burning at first, but then when his chest starts to warm up from the inside out it all seems worth it.

                Until the morning, when he stumbles home still not entirely sober and sleeps through his alarm and gets woken up by Valery, whose already been worried about him and how distant he’s been lately.

                He tries to reassure her—takes the littles to the beach and swims all day, and lets them bury him in the sand and laughs about it, and takes care for a few weeks to carefully apply concealer to the dark circles under his eyes before ever leaving his room.

                In June, Lance shows up at the playground and throws a pair of swim trunks at Keith’s face—because there’s that burning feeling curling in his ribs and making his tongue taste like ash, and he feels stupid and reckless and challenging and invincible.

                His neighbors are gone on vacation all week. He and Keith climb the fence surrounding their yard and find the pool, lights rippling through the clear blue water like something from a dream, and they jump in and laugh and make all too much noise but somehow they don’t get caught.

                He shushes Keith through giggles at least three times, and Keith just laughs harder every time, which makes the ash in his mouth taste like something almost sweet.

                The pool isn’t small, but they never stray far from each other, and the slide of bare, wet skin against skin sends electricity sparking from the nape of Lance’s neck to the tips of his fingers until he has to duck under the water to avoid doing something a little too stupid and reckless even for him.

                At one point, Keith rests against the side of the pool, elbows propped on the concrete ledge and face flushed, legs floating gently out in front of him. He’s smiling, and some of his hair has escaped from its hasty ponytail to stick to the sides of his face. The light bounces off the water and ripples across his face.

                Lance traces the blurred lines of his body, usually all sharp edges and angles, and wishes he could tell him how beautiful he is.

                The words get caught in his throat. Suddenly the taste of ash is back.

                But they’re seniors now and on top of the world and nothing can touch them, so he ignores it in favor of splashing water in Keith’s face.

                They climb out of the pool earlier than they usually end their nights, and they drip water onto the tile and Lance gets another of his stupid ideas that ends with Keith climbing through his bedroom window at four in the morning.

                Exhaustion drags down their limbs, gravity feels all too heavy after so long in the pool, and they stumble and muffle their hushed laughter while they towel dry and change back into actual clothes and then it seems almost normal for them both to lay down on Lance’s bed and fall asleep.

                Lance wakes up, just once, after falling asleep, and feels Keith’s hand curled against his chest and his own hand resting on Keith’s waist and Keith’s damp hair tickling his cheek and he wishes that this could mean what he wants it to.

                When he wakes up again, Keith is gone, and there’s a text that just says, “ _Sorry.”_

                _Sorry._

                On his birthday, Keith gives him a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and then they sit in Lance’s new car that his parents decided he needed now that he was eighteen that’s not really new but still runs, even if it’s old and a bit banged up and smells faintly musty.

                He loves it, loves that it’s red even though blue has always been his favorite color, and wonders if that has something to do with the drunk call where Keith told him about his new bike that was red and how red was his favorite color even though most people assumed it was black because that’s the only color he ever wears.

                They sit in that car and smoke and listen to music at volumes just quiet enough not to draw attention but just loud enough that conversation isn’t easy, and Keith has another bottle of vodka and Lance would wonder where he got it from but he’s found that it’s easier not to ask questions because he never gets answers anyway.

                “Happy birthday, Lance,” Keith says, words falling from his lips with swirls of gray smoke, and his fingers linger a little longer than they need to on the pack of cigarettes when he hands it to him.

                They drink from the bottle the same way, hand wrapped around the glass neck of it, head tilted to take a long swig until it doesn’t burn anymore and they’re drunk on more than life.

                Lance tries not to think about the pale curve of Keith’s neck and the way he doesn’t wipe the bottle before taking a drink after Lance like he’s seen most people do when sharing drinks.

                Both things show up in his dreams later on anyway.

                Sometimes Keith texts him on nights that he works, and they’ll spend slower hours during Keith’s breaks taking turns throwing one of Keith’s old shitty pocketknives at a dented plastic bucket in the middle of the gravel parking lot until one of them can get the blade to stick—Lance manages it first, and Keith whoops in triumph instead of taking it as a challenge, and he feels like maybe that’s progress.

                There’s an easy way onto the roof of the bar and restaurant, easier than the roof of the elementary school just up the road, and they’ll sit on the rough sloped roofing tiles, ignoring the gritty scratching against bare legs and arms, and smoke until one of the cooks or bartenders comes looking for Keith.

                No one ever seems to mind Keith’s long breaks, even his boss, and the one time the bartender—an older woman named Trish with multi-colored short hair and tattoos covering every inch of visible skin except her face—catches sight of Lance when she comes looking for Keith, she looks relieved instead of annoyed the way Lance expects.

                He wonders if they all worry about Keith the way he does.

                There are more drunk calls, shorter than the first and usually ended on a sigh. Lance would like to pretend that he doesn’t treasure them almost as much as he does the time they actually spend together, but at this point he’s past that.

                Keith takes to wearing muscle shirts similar to Lance’s when he works, because it gets incredibly hot in the kitchen and he doesn’t like having to roll his sleeves up to wash the dishes.

                The night they spend fucking around in the abandoned dining area of the restaurant, Keith takes a running leap and then uses the ledge of the loft that he grabs onto to do pull-ups. Lance is sure that Trish catches him paying more attention to the way the muscles in Keith’s arms are working than to the count he’s supposed to be keeping.

                In late July, Lance spends his first day with Hunk all summer, and he can feel his best friend studying him when he’s not looking, as though he’s a puzzle that needs solved.

                Maybe he is. If Hunk figures it out, Lance hopes he shares the solution, because he feels more and more confused with every passing day.

                They sit together in the basement of Hunk’s house and play video games, and Lance tucks himself against Hunk’s side like he always does and hates the wave of relief the contact sends through his entire body.

                He wonders when things got this fucked up—that he’s been distancing himself so much from his friends and family.

                He’s not sure how to find his way back to them.

                “Lance,” Hunk says, quietly, later in the day. “I’m worried about you.”

                Lance wishes he could pretend he hadn’t heard—it almost wouldn’t be a surprise, probably, the way he walks around in a daze most of the time.

                “I know,” he says, eventually. He doesn’t offer up an explanation.

                Hunk sighs, after a long pause that feels like walking away, and doesn’t say anything else.

                Valery finds the cigarettes under his bed when she’s looking for a pair of his boots that she wants to borrow. Instead of telling their mother, she sits on his bed and waits for him and shakes a cigarette out into her hand that she places between her lips.

                She doesn’t light it.

                For a long while, she stares hard at him, rolling the plastic-wrapped package between her hands, and then she tells him that there’s a part-time job opening at the garage where she works, and that she could put in a good word for him with her manager if he’s interested.

                He’s been working odd jobs all summer—mowing lawns, delivering groceries for their older neighbors that don’t get around so easy, painting fences. After blinking at her in surprise for a moment or two, he decides that probably having a regular job to occupy his time wouldn’t be a bad thing.

                The garage is a nice one—locally owned, grease-stained, a mess of old car parts but with tools always put back into their proper place—and it’s perfect for him. He falls easily into the routine of it.

                He doesn’t know much about cars at first, but he learns quickly. He knows more than most kids his age, or so he’s told by the manager, Coran, and he probably owes that to Val and his ability to listen.

                He thinks the smell of it is maybe his favorite—engine oil, gasoline, metal. Almost everyone there smokes, and none of them blink an eye when he joins them, even Val, although Coran occasionally fixes him with a look that’s equal parts disapproving and sad.

                After work, his body is always delightfully sore, and his skin will be grease-stained and when he goes to hug his mother she’ll shriek and wave him away with a dishcloth, scolding him in Spanish until he laughs his way out of the kitchen and into the bathroom to shower.

                He’s surprised she hasn’t picked up on the smoking yet. Then again—the first conversation he ever had with Keith, he mentioned how easily it was for the middle child to slip under the radar most of the time.

                Seems that it’s still true, even when he’s almost always tired and rarely in his bed at night and occasionally comes into the kitchen in the morning with bloodshot eyes she must attribute to sleeplessness.

                Lance tells Keith about his new job via text during a slow night, and ten minutes later finds a motorcycle roaring into the garage.

                Keith seems as at home in the garage as he is at the bar, even though he’s never spent any time there before—it’s clear that he’s spent plenty of time in similar places.

                He shows Lance his bike and Lance is thoroughly impressed by it, and then even more impressed when Keith tells him that he rebuilt most of it himself.

                Keith leaves when it gets dark outside, with a last look and a smirk that says, ‘ _See you soon,’_ even as his mouth says, “See you around.”

                Lance’s eyes follow him down the road until he fades from sight, and when he turns around, Val’s watching him.

                There’s something in her face that looks almost like understanding.

                And something like sadness.

                His skin prickles defensively at her expression, and he turns away and gets to cleaning up his area, putting away tools and trying not to think about what it means.

                Keith takes him for a ride on his bike that night, and they end up at a party somehow—Lance knows maybe three of the people there, including Keith, and sticks close to his side for most of the night until he disappears.

                When Lance finds him, he’s in a corner with his hands all over an unfamiliar girl.

                He leaves. The party wasn’t that far from his house…he doesn’t think.

                The walk certainly takes longer than he thought it would.

                When he gets home, Valery is waiting for him in his room, and there’s a text from Keith that says, “ _Where’d you go?”_ and then, “ _Fine, ignore me, I don’t care.”_

                Val doesn’t ask, but he tells her anyway, and ends up crying into her shoulder until he falls asleep to the sound of her whispered reassurances in his ear and the feeling of tears dripping from his chin.

                He thinks things will change after that, but they don’t.

                Until they do.

                In August, they start their senior year of high school. Keith starts acting more distant than usual in September, and stops inviting him around to the bar when he’s working.

                Keith’s eighteenth birthday is October 29th. Lance gives him a Zippo lighter with an engraving in the silver metal of flames, and a new pair of fingerless gloves because he’d noticed that his old pair was starting to look a little worn.

                They share another bottle of vodka and eat crumbly edibles that come in a Ziploc bag and are mostly crumbs already—they eat maybe more than they should, but they lay down all tangled together in the backseat of Lance’s car and he feels like he could sink into the leather.

                It’s like floating, almost—like their night in the pool, limbs relaxed at the very surface of the water, except they’re not in the water and Lance can feel Keith’s breath on the bare skin of his neck.

                They tease each other and fall asleep and Lance wakes up before Keith and carefully untangles himself from the car so that he can sit on the hood with the last of the vodka and watch the sun come up.

                Keith wakes up at the very end of the sunrise, right before it slips over the horizon completely and the sky is lit up all gold and pink and red fading into a deep purple, like the sky is bruised. He leans against the car and Lance offers him the last of the vodka, which he drinks in one long swallow.

                Their night ends when Lance says, “Happy birthday, Keith.”

                Keith isn’t in school the next week.

                Or the next.

                Someone says something about him attending classes at the alternative school, where kids typically go when they have attitude problems or when they got expelled one too many times from one too many schools.

                Ashley, a girl in their grade, started going to the alternative school when she got pregnant and couldn’t attend regular classes.

                He texts Keith about it, but he never gets an answer.

                Sometimes he catches glimpses—Keith’s dark hair, distinguishable for its unique style, through the glass door of the bar where he works, or his motorcycle leaving the high school parking lot just as Lance is coming outside.

                The next time he actually _sees_ Keith is at graduation, and he hates it. The ash in his mouth sucks all the moisture from his tongue and he touches his chapped lips with calloused fingertips and sucks in a breath from a cigarette too fast but doesn’t cough because he’s used to it.

                When Keith’s eyes meet his over the heads of the crowd, Keith takes a step as if to come towards him, and Lance turns away and walks in the other direction.

                They never really say goodbye. The last words Lance ever spoke to Keith were, “Happy Birthday.”

                He gets a text that says, “ _I’m sorry,_ ” and thinks about the last time Keith apologized to him.

                Exhaustion drags at him suddenly, and he is so incredibly tired.

                He decides he doesn’t care anymore, and that night he goes to a party that he knows Keith would never come within a ten mile radius of and gets drunk with his fellow newly-graduated classmates and tries to numb the pain in his chest where it feels like his ribcage was cracked open by flirting with every girl he sees.

                It doesn’t help, and he goes home and stares at his bed and the glowing stars on his ceiling and then turns and walks right back out the door.

                He goes up the hill to the church, and that’s where Valery finds him the next morning when she comes looking.

                “I thought I loved him,” he whispers, and his voice is rough and gravelly and maybe it’s from the hangover or the lack of sleep or the cigarettes.

                Val wraps her arm around his shoulders and pulls his head to rest against her neck. “I know,” she says.

                He doesn’t cry. The fire in his chest is finally burning out, but it’s leaving nothing but ash in its wake, the way he thinks he always knew it would.

                It leaves nothing but a burned out shell, dryer than the cracked soil of the desert, and too tired to do anything but sit there and stare and ache and wonder why his lips feel so numb when it’s been months since the last time he was high.

                 Valery takes him home and makes him sleep, and doesn’t let anyone disturb him until he wakes up on his own.

                When he does, he stumbles to the bathroom and looks into the mirror—really _looks_ —for the first time in what feels like years.

                His eyes are bloodshot. This time it isn’t because he’s high. There’s acne at his hairline, and on his chin, and it’s not much of a surprise when he’s neglected his skin care routine for as long as he has.

                There are purple bruises under his eyes, and he wonders if they’ll always be there at this point.

                His lips are still chapped, and he peels dead skin from them until his mouth starts to bleed and savors the metallic taste of it on his tongue just because it’s something other than the bitter taste of ash.

                He thinks that love is probably supposed to look different, especially when his eyes meet those of his reflection and he sees how dead they are.

                Vaguely, he remembers a time that his eyes were always alight with mischief or excitement or just an excess of energy. He wonders what happened to that person—the boy he used to be.

                His hands move before his mind makes the decision to.

                He washes his face. Brushes his teeth. Ends up hopping in the shower because he still feels gritty and sticky and asleep, and turns the water as cold as it will go in the hope that it’ll wake him up out of this daze that has become the way he lives his life.

                When he gets out, he stares at the mirror, at his dripping hair and how it’s begun to curl at the edges because of its length—he has a flash of a dream, of rough fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, and for the next half hour, the only thing he’s aware of is the buzz of the electric clippers held in his white-knuckled grip and the sight of his brown hair as it falls into the sink.

                Val meets him at the bathroom door, and if she’s surprised at his new haircut, she doesn’t show it.

                Her hand reaches out and rubs softly across his freshly buzzed head, and then she grins and shoves him and asks what took him so long because they’ve been waiting to celebrate his status as a high school graduate since the night before.

                He goes to his room to change out of his pajamas, and finds himself wearing clothes he forgot he had.

                He thinks his mom almost cries when she sees him wearing a blue tank top and shorts instead of the plain tank tops and heavy pants that’ve made up most of his wardrobe since the previous summer when he started working at the garage.

                The look on her face—the look on everyone’s faces—makes him understand for the first time that they noticed.

                They _noticed._

                He thought they didn’t—maybe spent the most part of two years thinking that he’d fallen enough into the background that no one would even realize if he disappeared.

                It’s nice to know he was wrong.

                Hunk comes over later in the day, and they start chattering animatedly about their plans in university—they got into the same college, Altea Tech, although Lance is still undecided and Hunk is firmly set on engineering.

                They’re going to room together.

                At the end of the night, before he leaves, Hunk looks Lance up and down, just once, and then his eyes well up and he gathers him up in a crushing hug.

                He doesn’t say anything until he’s standing in the doorway, and then he turns back and grins and pauses until it turns into a soft smile and says, “I’m proud of you.”

                There’s warmth in Lance’s chest, then—but it’s nothing like the warmth he’d been chasing for the duration of two summers and hundreds of in-between days and nights.

                It feels good.

                He lays in bed that night and stares at his glow-in-the-dark stars and lets the breeze from the window wash comfortably over his face, and he can see the faint light of the lit cross at the top of the hill but feels no desire to leave.

                His palm presses to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing and the steady beat of his own heart.

                He closes his eyes, and just breathes.

                He thought he loved a boy.

                In the end, it burned him.

                He thinks, maybe, even with the faint taste of ash still curling under his tongue, that he was better off for it.

                Memories flash behind his closed eyelids, one after the other—neon lights casting sharp shadows across an angular face, eyes flickering down to his lips, the rippling light reflecting from the water and onto pale skin, the feeling of a cigarette held between his fingers, a hand that feels made for his—and he falls asleep feeling as close to peace as he’s ever been.

                He doesn’t regret a single scorching second of it.


	2. ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost from Lance's past comes back to haunt him, two years after the fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stg this was only going to be 15k and 2 chapters maximum but it keeps getting longer. i've lost control of my life. time is obsolete and nothing matters

                Lance’s freshman year of college is devoted to healing.

                It isn’t exactly intentional. But sometime in late September, nearly a month after starting classes, he gets tired of dragging through his days, treating every new development with the same resigned apathy.

                So he decides to take advantage of the free counseling offered to full-time students, and slowly learns how to recover.

                As with anything, recovery is a process. It’s not a one and done type of deal—he has relapses. There are days when it feels nearly impossible to get out of bed. Sometimes he’ll go an entire week with hardly any sleep because his mind keeps him awake spinning irrational scenarios until he curls up and just stares at the wall, nauseous from the tangled knot of nerves in his gut.

                But he looks back, and he feels some of the tension in his shoulders drop, because he’s come so far. And even on the worst of the bad days, he can tell himself that it won’t last forever—that he’ll wake up in the morning, and everything will be okay.

                And usually it is.

                He learns how to be happy again. The first time he laughs—really laughs, until he’s red-faced and crying, unable to breathe through silent hysteria—Hunk almost starts crying.

                There are definitely tears in his eyes through the grin on his face when he leans over and hugs Lance tight to his chest, murmuring, “I’m so proud of you, bro.”

                It feels good.

                His sophomore year is mostly spent sorting through the tangled mess of unresolved emotions that he’s been pushing away for years—apathy comes at a cost, and reversing it sometimes feels so incredibly overwhelming and difficult that he questions if it’s worth it.

                When he finally sits down with his family and comes out to them after Christmas, though, and they respond with support as if anything else was never even a possibility, he can safely say that it’s definitely worth it.

                The smile on Val’s face later that night when she tells him about her girlfriend only cements that. She introduces them the Saturday before he has to go back to school for the spring semester, and they form a fast friendship that mostly consists of sending obscure memes back and forth.

                There are so many people at Altea that are actually genuinely interested in Lance—all of him, not just the parts that are convenient to them—that he goes through a truly terrible phase of intense introversion in the second semester of his freshman year. Hunk is the one to finally coax him out of it, and Lance will never stop being grateful to his best friend for his unwavering presence in Lance’s life.

                Their friend group grows. Hunk meets Pidge in one of his engineering classes, and Lance finds out that they take the same history gen ed, so they start sitting together.

                Pidge brings her brother Matt, who Lance hates at first, for some odd reason that he can’t pinpoint.

                They start dating later in the year. It’s never a serious thing, not really—they toss around the idea for a bit, but eventually decide that what they have is probably better off remaining casual.

                Pidge resents them both for it, especially when they engage in any form of PDA in front of her ever, and they tease her relentlessly with it until Matt eventually realizes that part of what was holding him back from a committed relationship with Lance was the fact that he’s at least a little in love with Shiro, and they transition easily back into being friends.

                Of course, they never really stop referencing their brief stint as boyfriends. They both like to joke about their sex life with each other—yet another way of teasing Pidge—and some would call their relationship strange.

                They wouldn’t trade it for anything.

                There’s a history of that in their friend group—Allura and Shiro dated before Allura realized that she’s a lesbian, and also that Shiro was in love with Matt and hadn’t realized it.

                Hunk and Lance made out at a party their freshman year, tipsy on some hellish mixed drink and just a little bit in love with each other.

                They’re all a little bit in love with each other. Platonic soulmates, or the like.

                Sometimes Lance looks at them and feels so overwhelmed with love and affection for them all that he gets tears in his eyes and has to hug them.

                There’s more to their friend group—it evolves depending on the week, mostly due to schedules. Nyma becomes a common fixture when she and Allura start dating. Some of Lance’s casual dates cycle through the group; he seems to have some sort of gift for maintaining friendships with people he’s fucked. His friends comment on it excessively.

                Hunk brings in Shay, although she’s taking eighteen credit hours, working a part-time job, _and_ running a club on campus, so she can’t join them as often as Hunk would like.

                They aren’t dating—yet. Coran helps Lance keep track of the betting pool for when they’ll finally stop tiptoeing around each other.

                Their friend group is diverse and beautiful and even if Lance is closer to some than others, he has plenty of love to go around for everyone. And they return it as though it’s the easiest thing in the world.

                Sometimes the difference between his life now compared to high school is so stark that it sends him reeling, but it’s a change he’s perfectly content with.

                ……………………………………

                Having a large social circle means that there are literally always plans—they rarely go a week without hanging out in some capacity, usually on the weekends when they’re all ready for a bit of a breather after classes.

                They have a lot of fun.

                Sometimes their group activities are as simple as movie nights—sometimes they get a little more extreme, like the time they broke into a frat house to steal their mascot because some asshole had taken to yelling slurs at their group whenever he saw them together.

                It wasn’t really ‘breaking in’ so much as stealthily crashing a kegster, but they all agree it counts since theft was involved.

                They reteach Lance how to _live_ —and he cherishes every second of it. There are so many nights to think of during bad days where he’d just breathed in the night air and smiled at the elation buoying him up until he felt like he might float off the ground. There are so many memories of laughter and remembering what trust is like and finding peace in simple things like the warmth of Allura’s leg against his own as they sat together on the couch…

                Life is easier with friends.

                “Do you have any big plans for the summer?” Elliot says, using a sorority flyer to fan their face.

                “Does working count?” Hunk asks, squinting at his laptop. He’s one of the last of them with finals still unfinished.

                “No,” El replies, pulling their shirt away from their chest and directing an annoyed grimace at the sun. “We’re all working except for Anya, and that’s only because she got that scholarship to study abroad all summer. I’m asking if you’re doing anything _interesting_.”

                “My sister’s getting married,” Lance offers.

                “Nice,” El comments, then pauses. Their nose scrunches. “Wait, which one?”

                “Val.”

                “The gay one?”

                “Yeah.”

                “ _Nice._ ”

                “Am I still your plus one?” Hunk asks, looking up from his laptop for the first time in several minutes. There’s the faintest hint of dark purple under his eyes, and it makes Lance want to blackmail him into taking a nap.

                “You know it, big guy. You’re the only one who can keep up with my spicy dance moves,” Lance teases.

                Pidge groans, surprising him—he thought she was asleep. “Lance, if I hear you use the word ‘spicy’ in reference to yourself _one more time,_ I swear I’ll program Rover to eat your socks.”

                “It’s a good word, Pidge. And Rover already eats my socks,” he points out. “Do you have any plans for the summer, Pidgey?”

                “World domination,” she answers immediately. Her eyes are still closed where she’s laying in the shade, trying to avoid the worst of the sun’s rays to prevent a sunburn.

                “Ambitious,” El notes. “I have total faith in you.”

                Lance’s mind drifts away from the conversation when Pidge starts explaining her plan to Elliot—he’s heard it before.

                His summer plans have never been very exciting—this year isn’t any different. He has his usual job at the garage with Val, and the wedding in July, and he, Hunk, and Pidge have plans to road trip along the east coast during the two weeks before classes start back up again.

                Beyond that…he’s not sure what he’s going to do with himself. Hunk has a fancy internship that’ll be taking up a considerable chunk of his time, and Pidge is moving in with Matt and Shiro for the summer because her parents are on an extended trip to gather scientific research on recently discovered species of frogs.

                They’ll still see each other, of course. Just not as often as he’s used to—and he’s not sure how he’ll handle that.

                He decides to put it aside, at least for now—this afternoon is too golden and perfect and peaceful for him to ruin it with things that don’t matter in the moment.

                Hunk blows out a loud sigh and closes his laptop, setting it on the blanket and collapsing backwards so that he’s laying on his back.

                “I’m done. If I study for one second longer, I’ll combust,” he announces.

                Lance, surprisingly unjostled by the sudden movement despite the fact that his head is pillowed on Hunk’s thigh, pats Hunk’s calf sympathetically. “That’s okay, buddy. You’ll do great.”

                Hunk sighs again and then sucks in a large breath, holding it and then exhaling slowly until his shoulders relax. “You’re right. I’m good. It’s good.”

                “There you go, bud. Wanna go for ice cream at Joanne’s?” Lance asks, glancing over at El and Pidge in all their overheated, sweaty glory.

                “Oh, god, yes, please,” Hunk replies, and that’s that.

                Pidge sends a text to the group chat, and they end up meeting a bunch of other’s at their favorite ice cream parlor—they frequent it often enough that Joanne, the owner, knows all of their names, despite the constant fluctuations in their social circle. She has Lance’s order memorized, and he pretends it doesn’t mean a lot to him that the older woman knows him so well.

                Allura and Nyma have already claimed one of the booths when they get there—all of them can’t fit in a single booth, but there’s another empty booth to one side. El and Pidge sit there to reserve the seating until the others arrive—and it’s not long until they do.

                Some of their group have already left for break, done with finals early, and some, like Hunk, have finals to study for and finish up.

                Most people make a point to show up, though, because even if it goes unspoken, they all know that this is likely the last time they’ll get to hang out like this for several months—and that a lot can change in a summer.

                Kyle, one of Lance’s exes, shows up with his boyfriend Terry, and they slide into the booth with El and Pidge—Kyle’s always had a soft spot for El, and he treats them like a younger sibling. Lance is glad he introduced them to each other.

                Matt and Shiro show up, fashionably late as always, with Shay, Alec, and Max on their heels, and that mostly rounds out the group.

                They get loud, as large groups of college students are likely to do, and Joanne smiles indulgently at them whenever their volume reaches a crescendo. She never scolds them.

                Alec complains about her lactose intolerance and their choice of venue until El, who has the same problem with dairy products, informs her that Joanne offers a dairy-free flavor of ice cream. It’s currently on a rotation of coffee flavored—Joanne and her staff make the ice cream homemade, so although they’ve made efforts to include dairy-free options, the few flavors they offer are on a rotation that changes every two weeks.

                Alec perks up considerably at that, and Max rolls their eyes at their girlfriend’s drastic change in attitude but grins at her fondly whenever she looks the other way.

                Lance eats his ice cream and drapes himself across Matt’s lap to wink flirtatiously at Shiro, which gets him a raised eyebrow along with a smile—Matt inevitably makes a dirty joke that has Hunk’s cheeks flushing red across the table and Pidge throwing balled up napkins at Lance’s attempt at a sultry expression from across the aisle.

                He’s happy. Hours later, when they trudge back to their dorms, in various states of dishevelment, his cheeks ache from smiling, and he holds onto that feeling of euphoria all the way up until his head hits the pillow.

                Sleep finds him mercifully easy, and he sinks into his bed without his worries weighing him down.

                …………………

                Home is a shock to his system after months at school—but that’s nothing new.

                He’s barely set foot inside the gate when he’s mobbed by young children that he affectionately refers to as gremlins as they gang up to tackle him to the ground. His Mama eventually shows up to fish him out from the bottom of the dogpile and crush him into a hug herself, which he melts into instinctively.

                No one gives hugs like his Mama.

                He arrives in the middle of the afternoon, right between lunch and dinner, so there’s time for him to get his things settled in his bedroom before he’s drawn into helping in the kitchen.

                The littles stick to him like glue, chattering away all at once while he multitasks to the best of his ability—he’s surprised at how easy it is to fall back into the familiar rhythm of his childhood home, but he supposes that at this point he really shouldn’t be surprised at all.

                This is still home. It always will be.

                Val gets home just as they’re finishing up the cooking, covered in engine oil, grease, and sweat, and Lance lets her pull her into a hug with only mild complaints about her ruining his flawless complexion with her grossness, although it’s quickly cut short by their Mama when she catches sight of Val’s dirty face and hands so close to the food.

                Her fiance would normally be joining them, but she’s working the late shift at the hospital for the night.

                Lance feels the slightest bit guilty about it, but he doesn’t really mind getting Val all to himself.

                Despite the small knot of pain in his chest at being away from his friends, Lance doesn’t find himself spiraling into a cycle of insecurity and anxiety like he might’ve at one time—he stays loose and relaxed, and the smile comes easy to his face, crinkling his eyes as he tells stories to the youngest kids.

                Not everyone is present for his homecoming—but that’s to be expected. They’ve all grown up, gotten older, moved out, and started building their own lives outside of this house.

                Ultimately, it doesn’t matter—sure, they miss those that are absent, but each of them press forward to fill the gaps they’ve left, and it makes it impossible for emptiness to seep into the cracks.

                When he goes to bed, he looks up at the faintly glowing stars on his ceiling, and breathes in the scent of summer captured in his sheets, and he smiles into his pillow as he falls asleep.

                All is well for nearly two full weeks. He starts back up at the garage, glad to see Coran in person again—learning that the niece he spoke so fondly of was Allura was a trip, to say the least, but their group has discovered so many unlikely connections that it wasn’t ultimately a big deal, in the grand scheme of things.

                He visits Val’s apartment to get wine drunk with her and her fiance—a laid back nurse named Indira that could get away with murder. They talk about memes and sit back with their wine glasses in hand as Val attempts to hit 200 push-ups solely because Indira suggested she couldn’t do it.

                The night ends with them all collapsed in a pile of tangled limbs on the floor, giggling and telling jokes that don’t make any sense. Val and Indira wake up the next morning with twin hangovers from hell, and Lance grins at them from the stove where he’s cooking them breakfast and nearly gets himself stabbed at the expense of a joke about getting old.

                School lets out for the summer for the younger kids, and he takes them all the the beach with Josie, El, and Leo to help him chaperone.

                Lance talks to El about his friend El from school, and though she’s mildly disappointed that their nicknames are short for two different names, she seems happy to hear about a new person with her name that’s studying to be an animator like she wants to.

                He helps little Mateo learn how to float on his back in the water, and plays multiple rounds of chicken with Gavin, Benji, and Leo, to the amusement of the others.

                They trek back home with smiles on their faces and sand in their hair, and sit on the front porch to dry off and eat popsicles, unfazed by the summer heat.

                Lance drives his car to his favorite lookout along the water—it doesn’t usually get a lot of traffic because it doesn’t have much of a beach. There’s a short, sandy strip along the shore that gives way to prickly grass, and for most it’s only good for a quiet picnic or a walk at sunset.

                He’s always loved it—it’s a quiet place for him to gather his thoughts, and usually unoccupied at night, and there’s a dock that extends out into the water so that he can dive off the end of it into deeper water and go for a good swim.

                His sisters sometimes argue that he swims plenty at the public beach during the day with the kids, but it’s never exactly swimming when he’s watching the littles.

                At the lookout, at night, there’s a cool breeze in the air, and the reflection of the moonlight on the water, and a perfect peaceful kind of quiet. He can lose himself to the currents, slicing effortlessly through the waves with practiced ease.

                Sometimes, he just gets that itch beneath his skin to _swim._ It shouldn’t be much of a surprise to his family—they practically live on the beach. The call of the ocean is in his blood.

                He feels the same way about driving, every once and a while. His solo trips to the lookout take care of both feelings at the same time. Two birds, one stone.

                He starts to slow down about two weeks in. He starts to actually notice the sluggishness about a week later, when he has his first entirely sleepless night in months.

                The next night goes about the same, until the frustration becomes a pained buzz in his veins and he finds himself clambering out of his window just like he used to.

                He usually ends up doing it quite a lot in the summers—although never as often as he used to.

                The itch doesn’t go away with the breeze, like he’d hoped it would. He finds his fingers twitching with the need to hit something—to expend this useless energy keeping him from sleep.

                It hasn’t been this bad in a while. But it’s been like this before. He knows how to deal with it.

                With a resigned sigh and a glance at the twinkling night sky, he bends to the asphalt and reties his tennishoes so the laces don’t trip him up. His eyes trace the path of the streetlights, plotting a safe route through streets that have never caused him harm—a new habit he hasn’t quite broken himself of.

                And then he starts running.

                He starts slow, trying to warm himself up before really pushing. The streetlights flash by, as he crosses in and out of the pools of light they cast, and the rhythm of it loosens something in his chest.

                When he hits the asphalt, he starts sprinting.

                His feet pound against the black tar, digging in and pushing faster, wanting to feel the impact in his bones, and as his breath starts to become ragged and his lungs start to burn, he laughs and runs faster.

                He used to hate running. He still doesn’t do it often. But when his skin feels too tight on his bones, something about running frees him.

                He stops when he hits the soccer field, mostly because his legs feel like they’re about to fold under him, and collapses onto his back in the grass, trying to catch his breath as he stares at the sky, one hand on his chest to feel it rise.

                When it feels less like he’s about to pass out from lack of oxygen, and the metallic taste in his mouth has faded, he closes his eyes and focuses on what he can feel.

                The grass is softer than it usually is at this time of year, blades of it tickling his bare arms and legs. The smell of it—damp, earthy—fills his nose. He can hear the creek on the edge of the field quietly burbling, hidden by the treeline but easily recognizable just the same. He can call a clear picture of its rocky, shallow waters to mind, remembering summer days when he was short enough that Val used his head as an armrest, and they’d all go to the creek to try and catch the crawfish that hid in the deeper parts.

                There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin—drops of it slip down the edge of his face and drip into the grass. He can feel the heat radiating off of him, starting to cool as his breathing regulates itself and the breeze flows over him.

                He opens his eyes again, looking at the stars. Finding the constellation of Orion is second nature, at this point. His gaze picks out the familiar shape of it with ease, and the beast under his skin quiets as he traces the pattern.

                He used to want to be an astronaut, so that he could fly among the stars. They’ve always given him peace.

                He sighs, and rolls over to heave himself to his feet. The burning in his muscles makes itself clear immediately, and he winces, knowing that he’ll likely regret his late night run in the morning.

                Instead of going back home to crawl into bed, though, he turns to the hill, and the school sitting at the top of it.

                It’s been a while. He feels like he owes the place a visit.

                When he crests the hill, he stops for a moment just to look. The old oak tree still sits where the hill down to the soccer field starts, and next to it are the metal bleachers, turned to face the expanse of blacktop that stretches in front of and around the elementary school.

                The tennis courts are shut, but not locked—they never are. The playground has mulch now instead of pebbles. The jungle gym has been replaced by another slide.

                But it’s the same, mostly.

                His feet are nearly silent on the mulch—with the pebbles, every step created such a loud noise as they slid and shifted underfoot that it was impossible to sneak up on anyone, if he’d ever wanted to.

                He runs his fingers along the rails of the merry-go-round, smiling faintly at the sunbleached wood.

                When he looks to the swings, on a level below the rest of the playground, he’s surprised to see that one of them is occupied.

                He’s more surprised to realize that he recognizes who it is.

                The panic freezes him in place, feet rooted to the ground, and he doesn’t think he breathes as he takes in the figure swaying slowly back and forth on the swing.

                _Keith._

                God, if he’d known he was going to be confronted by a ghost from his past, he would’ve dressed for it.

                Part of him—bigger than he’d like to admit—wants to walk away.

                Lance has spent the past year working methodically through the tangled mess of repressed emotions he’d buried when he was younger, and Keith was no small part of that—and also one that he’d still been trying to avoid as much as possible.

                Keith had hurt him, all those summers ago. The wounds weren’t fresh, but the scars were still there, still red and raw, and looking now at Keith’s ridiculous haircut, they ache.

                But Lance still wants an explanation. And..he hasn’t quite let go of what he once felt for the mysterious boy on the swing.

                So he doesn’t walk away.

                “You are not a face I was expecting to see again,” he says, and Keith turns so fast he falls off the swing. “Okay there, samurai? Or are the ghosts of your past just as much of a surprise for you as they are for me?”

                Keith sits up, slowly, eyes wide, face pale in the starlight. “Lance?” he asks. His voice cracks halfway through.

                Lance almost rolls his eyes—instead, he walks forward, ducks under the railing, and jumps a level down into the mulch. Keith’s expression somehow grows even paler the closer he gets, like he expects Lance to hit  him or something.

                He kind of wants to.

                But he pushes the temptation down and offers a hand to Keith to help him up—he regrets it almost immediately, and then even more when Keith takes it, and his hands are as warm as Lance remembers, radiating heat through the fingerless black gloves he’s always wearing.

                Lance lets go as soon as Keith is on his feet, stepping back to put some distance between them. He’s grateful that the shorts he’s wearing have pockets so that he has something to do with his hands while Keith stares and the silence grows stilted and tense between them.

                “Thought you skipped town after graduation,” he finally says, and Keith blinks as though waking up from a dream.

                “I did,” he answers, voice quiet.

                Lance raises an eyebrow—a silent question. Keith doesn’t look inclined to answer it, but then, to Lance’s surprise, he does.

                “I was passing through—I’ve been traveling the past two years, mostly. But I realized that I was nearby, and…decided to stop for a bit. Just to see if it’d changed any.”

                “Has it?” Lance asks. “Or is it just like you remember?”

                Keith’s eyes on Lance’s face feel like they’re burning his skin. Lance hates how soft Keith’s voice is when he answers, “It’s just like I remembered.”

                Lance nods, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and takes a seat on a swing. After a pause, Keith sits on the one next to him—the one he’d fallen off of.

                “You disappeared pretty quickly after the ceremony. There were a lot of rumors going around.”

                “Yeah?” Keith says. “I didn’t think I mattered that much to people.”

                “This town is pretty small, dude. You were the headline of the hot gossip for weeks. ‘The Great, Mysterious Keith Kogane—where on earth could he have gone?’” Lance quips sarcastically. If his tone is a little bitter, well—he deserves it.

                “Nowhere, really,” Keith says. “Anywhere but here.”

                “No college?”

                “No college,” Keith confirms. Lance can sense his glance without looking. “What about you?”

                Lance leans back, tilting his face to look at the stars. They help settle the ache in the center of his chest. “I’m home for the summer. Hunk and I both ended up at Altea Tech. Just finished up our sophomore year.”

                Keith doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that, and they lapse back into that awful silence. The world seems somehow both too quiet and too loud around them.

                Lance sighs, finally, and rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. “I figured, once you disappeared, that I’d never see you again.”

                Keith’s hands tighten on the chains of his swing, knuckles going white. Lance watches him for a moment. It doesn’t help him figure anything out.

                “Guess the universe just loves to surprise me. You’re like one of those cryptids you were always talking about. You only exist on clear summer nights on the playground of an elementary school.”

                Keith doesn’t say anything to that, either.

                Lance stands abruptly, leaving the swing swaying behind him, and starts walking away. “I should get back home. Nice knowing that you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere, Kogane.”

                He doesn’t look behind him when he waves.

                Keith doesn’t follow him or try to stop him, but Lance swears he hears the words, “I’m sorry,” as he leaves, nearly swallowed by the breeze.

                It doesn’t change anything. He still walks away.

                ………………………………….

                Lance is distracted enough at work the next day that even Ian picks up on it—which just tells him that his night fucked up his head way more than he should have let it, because Ian is usually oblivious to everything going on around him. He once tried to tighten a bolt with the wrong end of a wrench.

                About an hour before the end of his shift, Coran steps up next to him and quietly suggests that he leave early.

                “We’re having a pretty slow day of it today, my boy,” he says—an obvious lie. There’s never a slow day in the summer. “You’ve been working hard at it this week. You deserve a bit of extra time off. Go home and get some rest, eh?”

                Lance’s hand tightens on the edge of the workbench. “Coran—”

                “Lance,” Coran cuts him off, voice gentle. “Go home.”

                Lance looks at the mess of the garage around him—the three cars in various states of disassembled, tools disorganized, oil-stained rags hanging from every available surface—and then he turns back to Coran and sighs.

                “All right. You sure everything’ll be okay without me?” he asks, eyeing Ian in the corner as he trips over an extension cord that’s been there since the beginning of time and never moves from that spot.

                “I’ve got it handled, my boy. Go on ahead and get home. Maybe bother Val a bit on her day off,” he suggests with a wink, mustache twitching.

                Lance smiles at him and nods, wiping the worst of the grime on his hands onto a towel before heading to the office to clock out. Coran claps him on the shoulder as he leaves—his hand lingers a little longer than necessary, and Lance knows it’s his way of conveying support.

                _I’m here if you need to talk,_ it says.

                Coran is good like that.

                He lingers in front of his locker in the breakroom, staring at a bag in the back that he hasn’t touched in months.

                He’s been doing so good, but—his hand reaches out to unzip the bag and grab the pack of cigarettes and lighter from inside it, pocketing both.

                There’s guilt pooling in his lungs as he closes his locker and leaves, because he’d told Hunk that he wasn’t going to smoke anymore, but there’s too much buzzing in his head.

                He’d run again, but the exhaustion weighing his bones down makes it impossible.

                He tries to rationalize it to himself—it’s been ages since he last smoked, last fall break when he and Val went for a walk and snuck a cigarette each. He doesn’t smoke when he’s at school, because they have a tobacco-free campus and it’s not worth the risk of getting caught and fined.

                Rationalizing doesn’t really work, but he lights the cigarette anyway, and hates himself a little at the rush of relief it brings him.

                Instead of heading home, he decides to walk to Val’s apartment. It’s only a few streets away, as are most things in this town, and he can walk back to pick up his car afterwards. Indira is at work today, so Val will likely either be sleeping, playing video games, or working on the old Firebird she’s got in the shed as a side project.

                He’s on his second cigarette by the time he gets there—he follows the sound of cursing to the shed attached to the side of the building, and steps in to find Val’s legs sticking out from underneath the car.

                “Oil change?” he asks mildly, and there’s a loud _clang_ followed by even more vehement cursing. “Damn, Val, you kiss our mother with that mouth?”

                “Fuck you, Lance, that was a shit move. You know better than to sneak up on a girl when she’s elbow deep in a car’s undercarriage,” Val says, and his lips quirk up into the semblance of a smile.

                “Is our Fair Lady giving you trouble?” he says, and Val scoffs, the sound muffled by her position still half under the car.

                “This car is too much of a finnicky bastard to be a girl,” she grumbles, and finally slides out from underneath the Firebird, sitting up and wiping her hands on an already dirty section of her coveralls before turning her attention to Lance. He sees her take in the coveralls tied around his waist, the expression on his face, the tremble in his fingers, and the cigarette in his mouth all in a matter of seconds. “Shit. It’s a vodka night, isn’t it?”

                Lance blows smoke at her in response, and she stands, kicking halfheartedly at the wheel of the car as she passes and then stealing Lance’s cigarette from his hand on her way out the door.

                He lights another one.

                “Indira’s gonna beat my ass when she comes home and smells the smoke,” Val mutters, but she doesn’t throw the cigarette away.

                “Nah, she’ll just give you the disappointed eyebrows and stand there with her arms crossed as you blather out an apology,” Lance says, ignoring the glare he gets in response.

                It turns into a sigh, anyway.

                “Yeah, you’re probably right. I can just blame it on you, either way. Sometimes I think she likes you more than me.”

                Lance shrugs. “What can I say? I’m irresistable to the ladies.”

                Val’s sharp look tells him that his half-assed attempt to act normal didn’t work, but she doesn’t say anything until she’s pulled a bottle of scotch from the shelf and poured them both a glass on the rocks.

                He takes a seat on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, and she slides him his drink, watching his fingers tap on the countertop.

                “If we’re drinking vodka, too, we’re both waking up with hangovers from hell in the morning,” Lance tells her.

                She shrugs, and sips her scotch.

                Lance knocks his back in one swallow, grimacing at the taste, and then leans his elbows on the counter, fingers pressed to his forehead.

                “What happened?” Val asks, tapping ash into the glass dish in the middle of the counter.

                “Has the world ever hit you with a ghost from the past that you really would’ve rather not faced at the time you’re least expecting it?” he asks, and her brown eyes lock onto his for a long moment before she answers.

                “Which ghost came knocking this time, little brother?” she asks, and he slides his empty glass over to her for a refill.

                She obliges, and this time he takes measured sips instead of swallowing the whole thing in one go.

                “You remember the summer I started working at the garage? When you found the cigarettes under my bed?”

                “I don’t think any of us are going to forget that summer anytime soon, Lance. We thought you were going to disappear on us,” Val admits. Her nails tap against the side of her glass. “You were a bit of a ghost then, you know?”

                “I know,” Lance says, voice quiet. He closes his eyes for half a moment, taking another sip of scotch and letting it swirl around his tongue before swallowing, relishing the burn. “Do you happen to remember Keith Kogane? From my graduating class?”

                “The guy that skipped town after ther ceremony was over?” Val asks, eyebrows raised in surprise. “No one shut up about him for nearly a month. There aren’t a lot of kids that can up and pull a Houdini act on this small town of ours.”

                “Yeah, well, I knew him,” Lance says, and his throat feels like sandpaper. He takes another sip of scotch, which hurts more than helps.

                “Small town, Lance. I think everyone knew him,” Val replies, eyebrow quirked, like, _Get to the point already, little bro._

                “I mean I _knew_ him,” Lance repeats, stressing the words, and Val blinks at the look he fixes her with. Her fidgeting fingers still for a moment on the counter.

                “Oh,” she says softly.

                “Yeah.”

                “Damn.”

                “Yeah.” 

                “…like, _knew_ him, knew him? Or just knew him?” she asks, and Lance rolls his eyes, reaching for the bottle of scotch to top off his glass.

                “We were two repressed kids in this _small town_ of ours that you keep reminding me of,” Lance tells her. 

                “And?” Val prompts, eyebrow raised.

                “And we kissed once and never talked about it again,” Lance says.

                “So why are you so hung up on him?” she asks. Which—that’s the _question,_ isn’t it?

                “I don’t know,” he answers helplessly. “I don’t _know_.”

                Val sighs, making grabby hands at the bottle Lance is holding hostage, and doesn’t speak again until he gives it to her. “How about you start at the beginning?”

                So he does—he tells her everything, about every night they shared, how they gradually got closer but Keith still didn’t seem to be able or willing to acknowledge his existence in school, how he thought maybe they were headed towards becoming something more, how Keith started pulling away.

                And then he tells her about last night.

                By the time he’s finished, they’ve made a pretty sizeable dent in the bottle of scotch, and neither of them can call themselves entirely sober. He’s gone through another two cigarettes from his rapidly dwindling pack, and then Val had kidnapped it and hidden it somewhere out of reach to keep them both from falling off the wagon even harder than they already have.

                “Oh, Lance,” Val says, and he snorts, because _doesn’t that sum it up just perfectly._

                “Yeah,” he says, because there’s nothing else to say, and then he looks up at her and adds, “You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”

                “How’s that emotional repression thing going for you?” she asks, eyes wide at the confession, and he barks out a sharp, bitter laugh.

                “The fixing it, or the repression itself? Because I gotta say, I have not been working on it as well as I thought I was.”

                “Christ, baby bro,” Val mutters. “You’ve got more baggage than anyone your age should have to carry.”

                Lance fixes her with a sharp look—he can hear the hinting in her tone, and he _does not_ want to talk about the thing that she’s on the verge of mentioning.

                Enough ghosts are haunting him tonight.

                “Yeah, yeah,” she says, flapping a hand at him. She stands and takes the scotch with her, putting it back on the shelf, depleted but not empty. In its place, she pulls down a bottle of vodka, two tall glasses, and then grabs a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

                She makes them both Screwdrivers, heavier on the vodka than they typically are, and they relocate to the couch.

                “This is not how I expected my day to go,” Val murmurs to herself.

                “Join the fucking club,” Lance replies, and she kicks his ankle in retaliation.

                They enjoy silence for a few minutes, nursing their drinks and staring at the blank TV screen. Neither of them make a move to turn it on.

                “Do you want an explanation from him?” she asks. “Because if you do, that requires talking to him.”

                “I know.”

                “Do you think he’s back for good?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “Do you want him to be back for good?”

                “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

                “Well, that’s three answers right there. Are you gonna pick one, or should I?” Val asks, and he lets his head fall against the back of the couch.

                “He hurt me, Val—and he didn’t even have the fucking spine to tell me why.”

                “I know.”

                “I don’t think I’ve forgiven him.”

                “You don’t have to forgive him to get an explanation,” Val tells him. “He owes you one whether you decide to forgive him or not. And I, personally, would not hold it against you if you decided not to forgive him. There’s definitely a part of me that is only _minorly_ influenced by the vodka that’s tempted to chase him down and break his nose for doing what he did to you.”

                “I could break his nose myself if I wanted,” Lance mumbles, and she pats his calf consolingly.

                “I know you could, little bro. But why should you bust your knuckles open on his face and let him cause you even more pain? Better to let me handle it instead.”

                “He’s not worth it,” Lance says, and she pats his leg again—it seems more like approval this time.

                “There you go,” she tells him, and pours them both another drink. “Do you wanna slow down the whole drinking think and make a game plan to confront him, or do you wanna drunk rant and do Contingency Plan H?”

                “He’s not an ex, though,” Lance points out, and she shrugs.

                “He’s put you through enough shit to count as one.”

                And. She has a point with that.

                He sighs, staring into his glass, and then he looks over at his sister.

                “I wanna get so fucking drunk, Val. Contingency H on steroids,” he tells her, and she nods decisively.

                “You got it, Lancito,” she replies, ignoring his scowl at the nickname. She pauses as she sits up, hand hovering over the bottle of vodka. “Does it make me a bad person that I’m getting my underage brother drunk on a Thursday night when we both have work in the morning?”

                “Probably,” Lance says. “But to be fair, Mama and Dad let us drink at home when we turn 16.”

                “That’s because Cuba doesn’t have a legal drinking age,” Val replies. “They probably started drinking when they were 14.”

                “I thought the drinking age was 18?”

                “That’s the age you have to be to purchase alcohol. No one really gives a shit when you start drinking it.”

                “Nice.”

                “Yeah.”

                “America is stupid.”

                “Yup.”

                “Contingency H?”

                “Contingency H.”

                Indira finds them at 9pm in the parking lot, burning pictures of Keith from Lance’s high school yearbook in a makeshift firepit.

                She seems less surprised by it than should be.

                After putting out the fire and dragging them inside, she proceeds to chew them both out for smoking, demands an explanation for their madness, and then pours her own shot when she hears ‘Contingency H’ from Val.

                “God fucking damnit,” she sighs, and points a finger accusingly at her fiance. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

                “That’s fair,” Val acknowledges, and then kisses Indira sloppily on the cheek, resting her chin on her shoulder, and wrapping her arms around her waist. “I missed you while you were at work.”

                Indira sighs again, and reaches up to pat Val’s cheek. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

                “This is not helping,” Lance tells them, and kidnaps the vodka, taking it with him to the couch, where he can’t see them being cute. “Go be gay somewhere else. I’m wallowing.”

                Indira joins him on the couch after barely a minute, leaving Val to bang around in the kitchen. He can hear a blender—apparently she’s decided they need mixed drinks of a higher quality than the ones they currently have.

                “Who broke your heart this time?” she asks.

                “An asshole named Keith,” he answers.

                “High school sweetheart?” she guesses, and he fixes her with a confused look—she just shrugs. “It’d explain the yearbook photos.”

“I am not drunk enough for this,” Lance announces, and chugs vodka straight from the bottle until his stomach starts to feel unsteady and his head is swimming pleasantly.

                “You are going to have one hell of a headache in the morning,” Indira notes, and he flips her off.

                “Are you insulting my fiance, lil bro?” Val asks, the edges of her words slurring just enough for him to notice as she stomps out of the kitchen with a tray of margaritas. “Because if you are, I have to fight you. There are no exceptions for blood relatives.”

                “She’s breaking the rules of Contingency H,” Lance complains.

                “If you two dealt with your emotions like normal, healthy human beings, there wouldn’t be a need for Contingency H,” Indira mutters.

                “ _Valeryyy,_ ” Lance whines, gesturing insistently towards Indira and her rule-breaking mouth, and Val sighs, handing him his margarita.

                “Rule #7 of Contingency H: you don’t talk about the future consequences of Contingency H,” she tells Indira, and Indira rolls her eyes but doesn’t object any further to Lance’s method of processing difficult emotions.

                The night spirals from there. The fire was definitely the highlight of it—there is something deeply satisfying about watching pictures of someone who has caused you pain curl into ash and smoke.

                But Val lets him break stuff with her aluminum baseball bat, and when he feels drunk enough that he won’t care about what shit slips out of his mouth, he rants about stupid Keith and his stupid soft mullet hair and his stupidly pretty eyes and how _stupid_ it is that he still hasn’t gotten over someone that he never even _dated._

                Indira paints his nails a dark red color that looks like blood, and then repaints them to a bright bubblegum pink when he says that the color reminds him of Keith.

                He tries to leave when it’s pitch black outside, because suddenly with a belly full of alcohol the only thing he wants to do is march down to the elementary school to find Keith and _punch him in his stupid face._

                Val might’ve let him, if he wasn’t so drunk that he left barefoot and shirtless, with Indira’s jean jacket haphazardly thrown on over his bare torso (inside out). Instead, she follows him to the end of the parking lot outside her building, stops him by grabbing a fistful of the jacket, and hauls him over her shoulder in a fireman carry.

                Being upside down doesn’t do anything good for his stomach—he lays on the floor of their living room for a good hour after that, crying off the eyeliner that Indira painstakingly applied to remind him that he’s too pretty for Keith anyway.

                “Why do I like him? He has a _mullet,_ ” he sobs into the carpet.

                “You’ve always had terrible taste in men, Lance,” Val replies, lounging on the couch with Indira. “This is not news.”

                Lance glares at her through his tears. “Indira has worse taste in women than I do in men.”

                “ _Ouch,_ ” Indira laughs, and Val throws a pillow at his face.

                “Why does the universe hate me,” Lance questions sorrowfully. “Of all the nights Keith could’ve been passing through town. Of all the nights I could’ve picked to go for a walk. _Of all the fucking nights._ ”

                “Drink your margarita, Lance,” Val orders, and he does.

                Indira tucks him in on the couch with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol for the morning, sometime around midnight, if he had to guess.

                It’s the earliest a night of drinking has ended for a while, but they started early.

                When he falls asleep, head too heavy on his neck and thoughts fuzzy, eyelashes tacky with dried tears, he dreams of violet eyes and warm hands.

                ………………………………

                The next day is hell—as they all predicted it would be. Val isn’t as bad off as he is, mostly because she stopped drinking about two hours before he did.

                Smart of her.

                Work is _awful_ —the garage, as always, is full of loud noises and bright lights, neither of which do Lance and his hangover much good.

                He and Val take their lunch break together, and he lays his head on her lap with his hand flung over his eyes to block out the light.

                “Why do I have a vague memory of crying on a dog?” he asks, speaking as quietly as he can to protect his own ears.

                “That would be because you did,” Valery tells him.

                He raises his arm to squint at her. “You don’t have a dog.”

                “You kidnapped Terry’s lab.”

                “Fuck. Do you think she’ll still give me brownies?”

                “She thought the whole thing was hilarious, so probably. But you owe Bones an apology. You cried into his fur for twenty minutes straight.”

                “I’m going to die.”

                “Lance, that’s not anywhere close to the most embarassing thing you’ve done while drunk.”

                “Ugh,” he groans. “True. But I dragged a dog into my wallowing, Val. That’s so selfish of me. Dogs are too good for that.”

                “To be fair, I don’t think Bones minded much. He seemed to enjoy the cuddles and attention, even if he was a little alarmed by the crying.”

                “I owe Terry a cactus,” he says quietly, and Val snorts.

                “She has too many already. Someday we’re going to walk into her apartment and find the whole thing completely overtaken by plants.”

                “Don’t anger the plant witch, Val.”

                Whatever sympathy Coran had for him yesterday seems to have disappeared with Lance’s hangover, and he works them both to the bone until their shifts are over.

                He drives home, choosing to ignore the voice in his head telling him it’s a bad idea in favor of reminding himself that it’s only a two-minute drive and that it’s unfair to the others at the garage to leave his car cluttering up the lot.

                His Mama doesn’t have sympathy for him either—all he wants to do is crash into his bed and curl up there in the dark for a week, but instead she sets him to work helping prep for dinner.

                Only after dinner has been cooked, consumed, and cleaned up does she let him escape to his room.

                The exhaustion catches up with him as soon as he crawls into bed, and he’s asleep as soon as he lets his eyes close.

                ……………………………….

                Lance opens at the garage the next morning—a task he usually complains about, because he’s never been much of an early riser, but sometimes it has its perks.

                Watching the sunrise as he drives over is enough to settle him further into his skin, so that when he reaches the garage he has more energy that he might have at the same time on a different morning. He hums absentmindedly to himself while he works, unlocking the back door to let himself in and get everything in order before the rest of the opening crew arrives.

                Malory is the opening receptionist for the morning—a women in her fifties that spends most of her time doting on the rest of them. She brings cookies in every Friday.

                When she bustles in, setting her enormous purse on the front desk with a strangely solid-sounding _thud,_ her face is set into a grimace, and she clutches a thermos of coffee in one hand as though it’s her lifeline.

                As soon as she spots Lance, though, her entire face brightens, and the corners of her eyes crinkle with the adoring smile she greets him with.

                “Lance! It feels like an age since the last time I got to open with you. How’s Maria? Still a force of nature?”

                “You know Mama, Malory. She hasn’t slowed down one bit,” Lance replies, stepping forward obligingly when Malory opens her arms for a hug.

                “Of course not,” Malory says. She looks Lance up and down, studying him for any changes since last she saw him—it was only a week and a half ago, but it was on one of their especially busy days, so she hadn’t gotten the chance to properly inspect him. “New tattoo? I didn’t see that one last time. I like it.”

                “Thanks, ‘Lory. I can’t even come close to competing with you yet, though,” he points out.

                “I’ve had a lot longer to accumulate these than you have, Mr. McClain. Now go—shoo! We have a garage to open,” she reminds him, and he plants a kiss on her cheek before letting her wave him off into the garage itself. “Oh, just a heads up, there’s a young customer already waiting outside.”

                Something like foreboding curls in his chest. “Did you recognize them?”

                “No! That surprised me, I’ll tell you; I didn’t think there was a soul in this town I hadn’t met. Face like his isn’t easy to forget though, especially with those eyes. He looks to be about your age—dark hair. Red motorcycle?” she says, and he thinks maybe his soul dies a little.

                “Mother of _fuck,_ ” Lance curses, raking his fingers roughly through his hair and wincing when his fingernails catch on his scalp.

                “Hmm,” Malory hums, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll assume that you know him.”

                “Malory,” Lance says, turning his best puppy eyes on her. “My entire soul will die if you make me talk to him.”

                “It can’t be that bad,” she says dismissively.

                “Oh _yes,_ it can,” Lance replies. “I spent Thursday night getting very, very drunk with Val because of him.”

                “Then you’re over it! Good. Go talk to him,” Malory orders, and Lance _almost_ hates her. Just a little.

                “You owe me an entire _box_ of peanut butter cookies,” he says as he leaves. She doesn’t reply.

                For just a moment, he lets himself stand in the garage and allow the familiar smell of it to soothe him—the engine oil, something vaguely like burnt rubber, a lingering hint of cigarette smoke.

                It’s the smell of his second home.

                Ultimately, it’s what gives him the steel he needs to open the bay door and greet the person standing on the other side.

                At least he had a warning.

                He crosses his arms and ignores the urge to lean against the frame of the building. He refuses to shrink in on himself when those violet eyes land on him.

                “Something wrong with your bike, Kogane?” he asks.

                “No, uh—no, nothing’s wrong with my bike,” Keith says, and he sounds like he’s remembering how to talk to other human beings.

                Lance honestly wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

                “Then why are you here?” He’s not sure what expression is on his face right now, but he’d guess it’s pretty unforgiving, going by the way Keith’s eyes slide to the side and onto the ground at the sight of it.

                “I just—wanted to talk to you?” Keith answers. He sounds confused.

                “That a question or an answer, Kogane?”

                Keith blows out a frustrated breath, tugging on his ponytail, and straightens, stepping forward and away from his bike. “You weren’t there last night.”

                His voice is too soft. It stirs up old feelings in Lance’s chest all over again, and even as he clamps down on them and pushes them away, he hates Keith for it.

                He can feel his eyes go icy.

                “I was busy drinking cheap vodka on my sister’s couch,” he says, and Keith’s face twists into a grimace.

                “Yeah,” he mutters. Like, _‘Sounds about right.’_

                Lance unfolds his arms and shoves his hands in his pockets instead. He’s sure it probably looks unnatural—his shoulders are too stiff for his posture to look anywhere close to relaxed.

                “Why are you _here,_ Kogane?” he demands. His tone is sharp, and he can’t find it in himself to be sorry for it. “Shouldn’t you be long gone by now? After all, that’s what your best at, isn’t it? Leaving?”

                Keith flinches at that—apparently it hits a little too close for him. But he still doesn’t turn around to go.

                “I wanted to—explain,” he says, haltingly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you there. I wasn’t expecting to ever see you again, actually.”

                “I’m sure you weren’t,” Lance replies coldly. His arms are crossed again, shoulders bunched in a defensive stance.

                “But then you _were_ there,” Keith continues. “And I just—it didn’t feel like a coincidence, you know? And I think maybe…that I stopped because…I _wanted_ you to be there.”

                “That’s cute,” Lance says, voice flat. Keith’s mouth dips into a scowl—and then he forcibly twists his face into a more neutral expression.

                “I deserve that,” he mutters, and Lance almost wants to laugh, because _that’s a fucking understatement._ “But, just—please, Lance, let me explain?”

                Lance looks at him—looks at this ghost that’s decided to haunt him when he’d finally thought he was free of it—and then looks behind him, where a car has pulled into the lot.

                “I’m working,” he says, and starts walking towards the new customer. It’s one of their regulars; an older woman named Rita that’s had to come in for regular maintenance ever since her husband passed away. She usually chats in the waiting room with Malory while she waits.

                Keith scrambles after him, and fucking hell, can’t the guy take a hint?

                “Lance, please, just give me a chance to explain—I at least deserve that—”

                Lance spins on his heels so fast that Keith almost trips in his haste to avoid running into him, and there’s something like fear on his face when Lance jabs his finger against his chest hard enough for it to bruise.

                He hopes it _does_ bruise.

                “I don’t owe you _shit,_ ” he hisses. “After what you put me through, you should be happy that I haven’t put my fist through your face yet.”

                Keith’s hands are raised, palms facing forward, as though he’s surrendering to the cops. “Okay, that’s fair. But, please, let me explain—I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but I can’t just let this go. You deserve to know the reason that I left.”

                “I’m _working,_ Keith,” Lance says, harsh. “And you’re getting in the way of me doing my job.”

                “Come back tonight—meet me there,” Keith insists. “Please? Just one more time, and then you never have to see me again.”

                “Why should I?” Lance demands. “It’s been two fucking _years,_ Keith—why now? Why should I let you explain _now_?”

                Keith’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out, and for a second Lance thinks maybe he’s managed to shake him off. But then he shakes his head, stubborn to the end, and says, “I won’t leave here until you agree to let me explain.”

                “God _fucking_ damnit, Kogane. Why do you insist on being such a pain in my ass? I was _over_ you, and then you had to—fuck. _Fine._ If it’ll get you out of my face, I’ll let you explain. Now get out of my way.”

                Keith is already walking backwards, towards his bike, and there’s such relief on his face that it makes Lance want to punch him.

                “Thank you,” he says, and his voice is soft again, and it makes Lance want to punch him even _more._ “I’ll see you tonight.”

                “Yeah, whatever,” Lance replies, and turns around to greet Rita, who’s just now decided that it’s safe to cautiously step out of her car, eyes darting between him and Keith, curious and concerned all at once. “Good morning, Rita. Has she been giving you any trouble in particular, or do you just need her checked over?”

                “Oh, I—” Rita starts, apparently surprised at his abrupt change in demeanor. She blinks, and shakes her head, clutching her purse tight to her side. “There’s nothing major, but I was hoping you could rotate the tires for me? Yes? And I’m not sure it’s anything serious, but there’s this _noise_ whenever I turn on the air conditioning—”

                “Could be something rattling around in the vents,” Lance suggests, humming thoughtfully and looking the car over with a critical eye. “I’ll figure it out for you. Why don’t you go ahead inside and sign in with Malory?”

                “Oh, is she working today?” Rita says, craning her neck to squint at the windows of the building. “I haven’t seen her in a while. We always just miss each other, it seems.”

                “Well, I’m sure she’ll be as excited to talk to you as always. Summer gets a bit busier for us, you know, but we always make time for our favorite customers,” Lance tells her, quirking his lips in a charming smile.

                She flaps a hand at him dismissively. “I see what you’re doing, Mr. McClain.”

                He grins wider. “Is it working?”

                She purses her lips for a moment before breaking out into a matching smile and then laughing. “Oh, you know me too well. These maintenance mornings get awfully boring without you, dear. Keys?”

                He takes them from her, and pats the hood of the car reassuringly. “I’ll have her fixed up for you in no time, hey, Rita? You know the slow old coots that work here in the off-season aren’t half as fast as I am.”

                “Not too fast, I hope,” Rita says. “I do enjoy my talks with Malory.”

                He winks at her. “You got it, ma’am.”

                As he folds himself into the driver’s seat, adjusting it for his long legs so he can drive it into the shop, he catches a last glimpse of Keith’s back as he flashes away on that red motorcycle of his, and there’s a resurgence of those old feelings again.

                This time, they refuse to be neatly folded into a box. This time, they stay, clinging stubbornly to the lump in the back of his throat like oil.

                _“Keith,_ ” he mutters, and it’s a breath, barely a sound.

                After all this time, that boy could still easily be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i now have no idea how long this is going to end up being. updates will be sporadic because i have a life to live. but if you're along for the ride, I hope you at least enjoy it!  
> come bother me on [tumblr](https://jostxnneil.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't slept in 24 hours, so i have no idea if this is coherent but i'm posting it anyway  
> pls enjoy my garbage

                “Pidge, I’m going to die,” is how Lance greets his friend on Skype.

                She raises an eyebrow, hand frozen halfway into a bag of cheese puffs. “Did you finally tell Clara the truth about who puked on her favorite pair of shoes?”

                “No, and I never will,” Lance says. “God, Pidge, it’s like you don’t even know me.”

                “False,” Pidge replies. “I know you far too well. It’s a boy, isn’t it?”

                Lance blinks. “How the fuck did you guess that?”

                Pidge shrugs, shaking crumbs of her fingers. “We’ve been friends for two years, Lance. If I didn’t know you well enough to know when you’re having boy trouble, it’d be weird.”

                “Hmm,” Lance hums, looking at her grainy Skype picture with a skeptical eye. “How are things going with Hana?”

                Pidge’s shoulders slump, and she lets her head roll loosely against the back of her chair. “I hate that friendship is a two-way street.”

                “The cheese puffs gave it away,” Lance tells her, and she looks at the orange dust staining her fingertips with something like disgust. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”

                She sighs. “There’s not much to tell, really. I complimented her hair today and she thanked me and then talked for twenty minutes about how it’d been her _boyfriend’s_ idea for her to dye it.”

                “Oh, yikes,” Lance says, wincing sympathetically. “That’s rough, buddy.”

                Pidge shakes a threatening, cheese-stained finger at the screen. “Don’t quote Avatar at me while I’m heartbroken, Lance.”

                “Eat your cheese puffs and find your happy place, Pidge,” Lance advises. “You deserve better than to pine hopelessly after a girl who’s straight _and_ taken.”

                “We don’t know that she’s straight,” Pidge tries to reason, staring at the ceiling. “She could be bi.”

                Lance fixes her with a look. “Don’t do this to yourself, Pidge.”

                She looks inclined to argue more, but then the fight goes out of her small frame in a loud exhale, and she nods. “Yeah, you’re right. Even if she isn’t straight, she’s got a boyfriend, who she’s apparently been with for a while. It’s not worth losing sleep over.”

                “Good girl. Proud of you.”

                “So what kind of boy trouble are you having? Or girl trouble? Person trouble? Did someone hot and unattainable start working with you at the garage?” she asks, quirking a brow.

                “In this town? Never,” Lance says. “No, it’s an old…ex. Ish.”

                “Ish?” Pidge says, seeking clarification.

                He’s not sure how to give it to her.

                “It’s complicated,” he says, resting his head on his hand. She leans forward, squinting at his picture on the screen, and then nods decisively.

                “This requires the Committee,” she tells him, solemn, and before he can utter a protest, she’s turning around to screech, “Shiro! Matt! Convene the Committee!”

                “I hate you,” Lance mumbles, and she clicks her tongue at him.

                “And after all I’ve done to help you...to think you’d turn around and betray me like this.”

                “You deserve it for dragging them into this,” he argues. “They’re gonna go all _Dad_ on me. You know it’s weird when Matt tries to give me parental advice! I’ve sucked his dick, Pidge!”

                She makes a wretching sound, pressing a fist to her mouth. “I fucking hate you back, Lance. You don’t have to bring that up every single goddamn time!”

                “Bring what up?” Matt asks, suddenly appearing onscreen. “Is it about our incredibly lascivious and enviable past sex life?”

                “The human race was a mistake,” Pidge grumbles.

                “Pidge, what’s this about?” Shiro asks, appearing at Matt’s side. “Lance? Did something happen?”

                “We’re only a few years apart, Shiro, and I swear to all that’s holy if you try to fucking Dad me I will unfriend you,” Lance threatens.

                “I’ll take that as a yes,” Shiro says, tone irritatingly calm and reasonable as always. “What’s up?”

                Lance groans miserably, pressing his face into his hands.

                “An ex ish,” Pidge answers.

                “Ish?” Matt asks.

                “That’s what I said,” Pidge says.

                Matt pats her head. “Great minds think alike, Pidgeon.”

                Lance sighs, and flings himself backwards to slouch dramatically in his chair. “I wish you guys were here.”

                “We miss you too, buddy. Now tell us what’s wrong so we can help,” Matt orders.

                “Fucking _Keith,_ ” Lance says, and he can see them exchanging confused looks out of the corner of his eye.

                “Who’s Keith?” Shiro asks, biting the bullet for the rest of them.

                “An _asshole_ who broke my _fucking heart_ and thinks he can waltz back into my life as though I owe him anything—fucking Keith! I’m gonna punch him the next time I see his stupidly pretty face, I _swear._ ”

                Shiro blinks. “Okay. That’s a lot there. Why don’t any of us know about Keith?”

                Lance shakes his head, shrugging. “He just—wasn’t relevant.”

                “Mm,” Pidge hums, expression doubtful. “That sounds like a lie.”

                “No, he really wasn’t,” Lance insists, and sighs for what feels like the hundredth time. “I messed around with him in high school. Or, he messed around with me, and I fell in love with him. Or something like it? I don’t know.”

                Matt’s expression softens suddenly, and Lance cringes at the realization there. “Oh. The realization guy?”

                Lance nods, tired. “Yeah.”

                “Realization…?” Pidge starts, and then her lips twist. “Hm. So he’s the guy, then? The bi awakening guy?”

                Lance’s nose wrinkles. “I still stand by every time I said that Han Solo was my bi awakening.”

                “Horton hears a bitch ass liar,” Pidge replies, and he flips her off. “Okay, so what happened with him? What makes seeing him again so awful?”

                “He left,” Lance says, feeling like that summarizes it pretty succinctly. “He left, and he never bothered to tell me why.”

                “Did he just up and disappear? Or did he tell you he was leaving and _then_ up and disappear?” Matt asks. “Very important distinction there.”

                Lance shrugs. “We never really…talked. Or, we did, but it felt like something out of a dream, you know? We used to meet up most nights in the summer, at the elementary school down the street from my house, and sometimes we’d just talk and other times we’d smoke or drink or do illegal shit like break into the neighbor’s pool for a midnight swim. But whatever we had, it never followed us into the day, or—he didn’t let it. He didn’t really acknowledge my existence at school, even though we were in the same grade and a few of the same classes. So that—that was already a problem.”

                “And then?” Pidge prompts. 

                “And then he stopped coming,” Lance continues. “Well, he stopped coming as often, first, and there was a time or two that I asked him about it, but he never really answered the question. And then he stopped coming at all. Never told me why. Last time I ever saw him was on graduation, and he skipped town as soon as the ceremony was over. Never saw him again.”

                “Okay, so…?” Matt asks.

                “Until three nights ago, when I found him haunting the same playground we used to meet at. We didn’t have much of a talk, and I left before he could really explain anything, because I was _pissed_ —but now he won’t leave me the fuck alone. He showed up at the garage today, and he wouldn’t leave until I agreed to meet with him tonight.”

                “Is he threatening you?” Shiro asks, and there’s concern and anger in equal amounts on his face. “Is he making you feel unsafe?”

                “No, I—Keith isn’t that type of guy. He’s just being a pain in my ass. And I’d _really_ prefer it if he’d go away, because he’s bringing up a shit ton of old feelings that I haven’t dealt with yet.”

                “Have you actually told him to fuck off?” Pidge asks, and Lance opens his mouth to answer before hesitating, because—no. He hasn’t.

                “Not in so many words? I figured he’d get the message from the way I spent every second of our conversation glaring a hole into his head.”

                “Do you want to see him?” Matt asks, face more serious than Lance usually sees it.

                “No,” Lance answers immediately. “But—yes? It’s fucking confusing, okay? I thought I was over him—I’ve dated plenty of people since him! _Actually_ dated, not the whatever the fuck thing we did, and I’ve been avoiding him and all reminders of him pretty fucking well for the last two years.”

                Pidge blinks. “You’ve actively been avoiding reminders of him for two years and you’re only now realizing you might not be over him?”

                “I shouldn’t have to get over him! I was never under him!”

                “You said you were in love with him,” Shiro points out.

                “It—I was a teenager. In high school. I was only just realizing that I wasn’t entirely straight, and I’d never dated anybody. He was the first guy to show interest in the real me, so maybe I latched onto him a little. It was a crush. Infatuation. Puppy love, whatever. We kissed _once,_ and neither of us ever acknowledged it after, so it couldn’t have been actual love,” Lance argues.

                He feels an awful lot like he’s convincing himself.

                “You had history, and something special,” Shiro argues. “It doesn’t have to be the traditional sort of love to matter, Lance.”

                “I don’t want to still be stuck on him,” Lance says. “It’s been years, Shiro.”

                Shiro shrugs. “Time can’t heal a wound if you don’t acknowledge that it’s there.”

                “A bruise on my back will heal even if I never see it,” Lance argues, and then stops. “But I get what you mean.”

                “Do you want your explanation?” Matt asks, and Lance wishes that the people who care about him didn’t know enough to ask that question.

                “I don’t know about want,” Lance says, tilting his head back to stare at the faded glow in the dark stars stuck to his ceiling. “But I think I need it. If I’m ever gonna get over him…I think I need to know why he left.”

                “Then you have your answer,” Shiro says. “You get your explanation, and if you never want to see him again afterwards, you don’t have to.”

                “Do you ever get tired of being so reasonable?” Lance asks, and Shiro laughs.

                “I’m only reasonable when I’m giving other people advice.”

                “Isn’t _that_ the truth,” Matt says. “He’s terrible at taking care of himself.”

                “Aren’t we all,” Lance sighs, and they all take a moment to consider that before nodding in agreement.

                “Point taken,” Matt says. “You think you’ll be all right meeting this Keith guy on your own?”

                “I’m not helpless,” Lance replies, and he can hear the slightest bit of an edge creep into his voice.

                He knows that their concern comes from love and logic, but the reason for it isn’t one he wants to think about.

                Shiro hums thoughtfully. “I used to know someone named Keith.”

                “You’re a graduate assistant at a relatively large university. I wouldn’t be surprised if you know multiple people named Keith,” Matt says, but Shiro shakes his head.

                “No, this was before college.”

                “Yeah?” Lance asks. “Was your Keith an asshole too?”

                “He kind of was, actually,” Shiro answers, smiling fondly, eyes lost in memory. “But he was an angry kid with plenty of reasons to be angry, so you mostly forgave him for it.”

                “Sounds familiar,” Lance mutters. “Except this time I’m not very inclined to forgive him.”

                “I don’t blame you,” Shiro says. He leans back a bit, expression still far away, head tilted thoughtfully. “I haven’t thought about Keith in a while. Or, well—that’s not fair to him, really. He’s not the kind of kid you forget easily. But I haven’t seen him in…five years? Six? That Keith disappeared on me too. I had to stop looking, after a while.”

                “What is it with guys named Keith and leaving? Is that just the way it is, like guys named Chad all being frat guy dudebros?”

                “You dated a guy named Chad,” Pidge reminds him. She’s gone back to her cheese puffs.

                “I had a serious of one-night stands with a guy named Chad,” Lance corrects. “Three. Does three count as a series? I had a trilogy of one-night stands.”

                “I don’t think it’s a one-night stand if it’s more than one, Lance,” Pidge says. “That’s the whole point.”

                “Putting the Chad thing aside,” Shiro interrupts, and they all look to him. He does that—he’s the kind of guy born with an inherent ability to command a room. “If you need help with this Keith guy, let us know. Don’t let him mess with you again.”

                “Easier said than done,” Lance mumbles. “Thanks, Shiro. And Pidge and Matt. You guys are great.”

                “If you really appreciated me, you’d send me more cheese puffs,” Pidge says, staring desolately at her empty bag.

                Matt snatches the bag from her and ruffles her hair, dodging her reflexive swipe at his ribcage with ease. “You’ve wallowed enough, Pidgey. Time to angry rant at bad romcoms and then find a new girl to fixate on.”

                “ _Matt,_ ” Pidge says threateningly. He just raises an eyebrow at her.

                “I’ll eat your coconut ice cream,” he replies, backing out of the room.

                She narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

                He grins. “I totally would. First one to the couch gets to pick the movie!”

                Pidge screeches and races after him, nearly sending her chair tumbling to the ground and leaving Shiro behind to steady it.

                He chuckles, looking fondly towards the doorway where they disappeared. “Guess I should probably go make sure they don’t kill each other over something as petty as ice cream.”

                “Probably,” Lance agrees. “Hey, Shiro—thanks again. And I’m sorry about your Keith, even if it was a while ago.”

                Shiro shrugs. “I’m always happy to help, Lance. And I like to think that my Keith had his reasons—even if he never got the chance to outright explain them to me. He’s probably out changing the world somewhere, whatever small way he can—he always had it in him.”

                There’s an indignant shout and then a yelp from the direction of the kitchen, and Shiro sighs in resignation.

                “Damage control?” Lance asks, and Shiro nods in agreement.

                “The Holt siblings could destroy the world if left alone together for too long. Wouldn’t want that to happen before you get your explanation, right?” Shiro says, and Lance’s lips twist, but he nods, shooing Shiro away. “Things’ll work themselves out, Lance. And I’m sure things with your Keith won’t end up like they did with mine—yours came back, after all. Keith Kogane never did that much.”

                Lance blinks, suddenly frozen, but before he can say anything else, Shiro gives a little awkward wave with his prosthetic hand, just as the yelling from the kitchen reaches a new volume.

                “I should go—don’t let your fear dictate your actions, Lance. I’ll see you later,” he says, and ends the call.

                _Keith Kogane never did that much._

                Lance unsticks his frozen face and stares at the Skype window, something entirely unwanted bubbling up in his chest.

                “Motherfucking _shit_ on a dick,” he says, and slams the laptop closed.

                ……………………    

                Lance takes his time on the walk over to the elementary school.

                No doubt, Keith is wondering if he’ll bother to show up tonight, like he said he would—he’s late enough past their usual meeting time that it probably seems a plausible conclusion.

                He just needs time to gather his thoughts.

                _Shiro knows Keith,_ he keeps thinking. _Knew Keith?_

                He wants to know more about their relationship, but—it changes things. Because now this Keith, his Keith, is someone else’s Keith too. Someone who wants to see him again.

                It’s a mess, is what it is. But then, it was already a mess before.

                He sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. He’ll listen to Keith’s explanation, whatever it might be, and then he’ll decide where to go from there. For now, there’s no use dwelling on it.

                When he takes his first step onto the playground, mulch barely crunching under his feet, Keith looks up immediately from where he’s leaning against the merry-go-round, hyper-aware of everything around him. His expression is more nervous than Lance has ever seen it.

                “Lance,” Keith says, straightening. “I was starting to think maybe you weren’t going to show up.”

                “I keep my promises,” Lance replies. Something in Keith’s eyes goes funny at that—but it disappears before Lance can figure it out.

                “I know,” he says. The silence stretches between them, heavy enough that it almost feels tangible, as though Lance could reach out and touch it. Then—

                “Roof?” Lance suggests, and Keith’s shoulders slump as though some invisible weight has disappeared from them as he nods, walking right on Lance’s heels as he leads the way towards the school.

                It’s been a while since he’s scrambled his way up the brick wall and onto the roof, but he manages it just fine. If it has something to do—as always—with the fact that he doesn’t want to mess up in front of Keith, well. That doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

                He has a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket. This is a new one—the old one was gone soon after the night he spent with Val, and he hated himself when he bought the pack at the gas station down the road, but he couldn’t quite convince himself not to do it.

                And tonight—well, he needs something to keep his thoughts from wandering towards the drop over the edge of the roof.

                When he offers one to Keith, out of habit, he’s surprised when he refuses—and then there’s something like admiration. Pride.

                “Good on you for kicking the habit,” he murmurs. A quick questioning look, followed by a shake of Keith’s head, gives him permission to go ahead and light his own without feeling guilty for potentially poisoning the guy’s lungs. “I haven’t quite managed it yet.”

                “Wasn’t a lot of money for cigarettes on the road,” Keith explains, and in that one sentence, he offers more about himself than he did in weeks of nights just like these two years ago. “Isn’t Altea a tobacco free campus?”

                Lance inclines his head in acknowledgement. “It is. I don’t smoke on campus. I’ve been trying to quit for over a year now, but as soon as I get stressed, I crave it. Being off campus makes it difficult to ignore those cravings.”

                Keith nods in understanding—he almost looks guilty, and Lance wonders if it’s because Keith’s the one that started him smoking, or if it’s because he’s the one currently causing a majority of Lance’s stress.

                “You gonna explain, Kogane?” he asks finally. “Or are we gonna sit here and blow smoke at the sky the whole night?”

                For a moment, Keith looks as though he might fall back on old habits and reply with something snarky or characteristically assholish—“You’re the one blowing smoke, McClain, I’m just minding my own business,”—but then he sighs, fidgeting with the edges of his fingerless gloves, and looks out over the town lights as he starts to speak.

                “I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he starts, and he looks so pained that Lance has to look away. He’s not here to forgive and forget. He’s here to get an explanation. Keith looking like a kicked puppy isn’t going to change that for him.

                “Good,” he says around his cigarette.

                The glance Keith aims his way is filled with something like regret. His fingers tap against his knees, too anxious to sit still, and Lance would bet that he’s maybe wishing he’d taken up that offer for a cigarette after all.

                “I never meant—” he starts again, and then cuts himself off. His hand grips the fabric of his jacket, right over his chest, and when he speaks again, his tone is abrupt, words short and clipped. “You remember that I was a foster kid?”

                Lance nods.

                “I know I didn’t talk about them much, but I know that you probably at least got the idea that they weren’t the greatest caretakers,” Keith continues. He still can’t seem to look Lance in the eyes. “For the most part, I put up with them, because usually they didn’t give a shit what I did so long as they got their check in the mail every month.

                “Then, towards the end of junior year…well, a lot happened. There was a kid that lived next door, maybe a year or two younger, and for some reason he seemed to look up to me. His parents would rope me into dinner at their house a lot, probably out of pity, because they’d known Rich and Jan long enough to know that they didn’t really count as parents.”

                His shoulders start to hunch involuntarily, like he’s trying to protect himself from the memories in his head.

                Lance knows what it looks like. He’s been there enough times himself to recognize it.

                “One night…I was over at their place again, and we’d just finished dinner, and the kid—Nate—dragged me out onto the back porch to show me his new telescope. We were just talking, although he was doing most of it. But then—and I’ll never understand why—he stepped right up to me, and he kissed me.”

                Lance spends a moment squinting at the profile of Keith’s face, cast in shadow by the streetlights below them, and wonders how the hell he’s never noticed the affect he has on people. He’s like gravity, or—a sun. A black hole. Get too close, and he’ll pull you into his orbit without ever trying.

                “His dad chose that moment to walk out to join us,” Keith says, and—

                _Oh._

                “He wasn’t happy, to put it mildly,” Keith explains, voice dry. “As the older kid, obviously the whole thing had to be _my_ fault, and _my_ bad influence, although Nate didn’t get out of the situation completely unscathed.

                “Once he was finished screaming, he told Rich and Jan about what had happened, and they reacted even worse. Something about how they’d successfully raised a dozen foster kids and I wasn’t going to be the one to ruin their reputation in the community, or—I don’t know. It’s all kind of a blur, really. But they threatened a lot of things that night.”

                Lance’s fingers twitch towards Keith, and he glares at them, balling his hand into a fist as though that’ll stop it from wanting to reach out and comfort the boy that’s caused him so much trouble.

                “They wanted me gone then, but I wasn’t eighteen yet. Before, even if they’d been reluctant in their support, there’d been an agreement that they’d keep me under their roof until I could leave for college. That night, they said they wanted me out as soon as I turned eighteen—which wouldn’t have ended well for me. I didn’t have enough money from working part-time to pay rent and finish school at the same time. So I managed to convince them to let me stay until graduation, but it meant that I had to swear I wouldn’t ever do anything like what happened with Nate again.”

                Keith’s hands find their way to the pockets of his jacket and pull it tighter around him, despite the drowsy warmth of the summer air.

                “After that, it became a lot harder to sneak around them. I was allowed to go to school, to work, and pretty much every bit of free time beyond that was carefully monitored. I won’t get into any details about it, but—it wasn’t good.

                “They relaxed a little, once I’d followed their rules for a while. I kept sneaking out to see you, because—I wanted to. Our nights were something that kept me going for a long time. But they got suspicious, and—Lance, I never wanted to hurt you. That’s where all this leads to. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me,” Keith says, and his eyes are almost on Lance’s face.

                Lance shakes ashes from his cigarette. “You failed pretty hard at that one, buddy.”

                Keith’s eyes close for a moment, like he’s bracing himself. “I know,” he says softly. “But—better that you didn’t know the truth. Or that’s what I thought, because—I didn’t know you as well as I should have, but I knew if I told you that I was staying away to try and protect you, you’d have tried to call bullshit. You wouldn’t have stood for it.”

                “That’s because it is bullshit,” Lance mumbles. Louder, he adds, “You should’ve let me decide what risks I was willing to take for myself.”

                “Yeah,” Keith admits. “I had this tendency to make impulsive decisions in the face of a problem that usually only resulted in a bigger problem.”

                “Have you shaken off that particular bad habit yet?” Lance asks, and Keith’s lips turn up in an approximation of a smile, almost amused.

                “I’m working on it,” he says. “Look, Lance. When I say I didn’t want to get you hurt, it’s not just—it wasn’t just me trying to save you from getting screamed at. People have died in towns like this for less. And if Rich ever knew about you—I hate to think about what he might’ve done.”

                Lance leans back at that, smoke curling from the half-forgotten cigarette still held in the fingers that brace against the cool brick edge of the rooftop. “We never really did anything, Keith.”

                “We came close enough for it to count to him,” Keith answers. “Close enough for it to count to most people like him. And I couldn’t risk that. I couldn’t risk you.”

                Lance wipes his thumb along the edge of his bottom lip, glancing between Keith and the edge of the roof where his hand rests.

                “Plus, you know—it wasn’t like I had everything figured out back then. Everything we had, when we weren’t together, it still felt like a dirty secret, and I hated that. I hated that the influence of the people in my life could taint something that mattered so much to me.”

                And that—Lance understands that. He struggled with it nearly every moment they weren’t together, often while sitting on a bench that he could see from here if he turned his head to look for it.

                “You deserved better than that,” Keith says, and his fucking _voice_ —it’s too soft, again, and Lance wants to punch him for it.

                “I deserved an explanation,” Lance retorts. “And I deserved to make that choice for myself. You took that choice away from me.”

                Keith rubs at the back of his neck, staring down at his shoes. “I was afraid of what you’d choose if I gave you the chance.”

                Lance can read between the lines on that one. He knows the whole thing is—was—a messy situation. Keith would want him to walk away, so he’d be safe, but at the same time…Lance knew that Keith had his problems with being left behind, even though he’s the one that’s done the leaving in their case.

                “I would have chosen you,” Lance says, voice close enough to a whisper that it’d be snatched away by the wind if their rooftop haven didn’t seem strangely quiet—like they were in a soundproof room, with the outside world muffled.

                Keith’s head jerks at that, and Lance’s shoulders tense, but—he can offer at least that.

                He can feel the ghost of a smile on his face as he takes one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out and flicking it off the edge of the roof, where it lands on the concrete sidewalk below.

                “I never had great self-preservation instincts,” he muses, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “My friends would say I still don’t.”

                Keith hunches in on himself even more, and Lance would guess that he’s realizing what could’ve been—but ultimately, they’re probably better off that things didn’t work out that way.

                They would’ve burnt themselves out on each other.

                Keith’s hands shake, knuckles white—and then they relax, and he sighs.

                He looks Lance dead in the eyes this time when he says, “For what it’s worth—and it’s probably not much, coming from me—I’m sorry, Lance. You don’t have to forgive me. But I’m sorry that I made your choice for you. I’m sorry that I didn’t explain.” He hesitates for half a beat, eyes flickering away, before he finishes with that too-soft voice, “I’m sorry I left.”

                Lance stares at him, long enough for him to get uncomfortable and start to squirm underneath the intensity of his gaze.

                “Man, you’re such an asshole,” Lance finally says, voice louder than it’s been the whole night through. “You couldn’t just sit back and let me hate you, could you? You had to go and be all reasonable and shit. What a dick move.”

                Keith looks so confused by that, and it’s not a surprise until he says, “You… _don’t_ hate me?”

                Honestly, _fuck_ him.

                “You fucking—ugh,” Lance answers, and his skin feels all prickly again. “As much as I’d like to, Kogane, I don’t think I’m capable of hating you.”

                Keith has the fucking nerve to look like someone just handed him a winning lottery ticket, and Lance _almost_ wants to punch it off of his face.

                “So you don’t hate me,” Keith says, slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the way the words feel in his mouth. “And…if I stuck around town for a while…?”

                “I haven’t said jack shit about forgiving you,” Lance reminds him. “But if you stuck around, I probably wouldn’t break your nose the next time I saw you.”

                “You mean you wouldn’t _try,_ ” Keith scoffs, and Lance points a finger at him threateningly.

                “Is that a _challenge,_ Kogane? It sounded like a challenge.”

                “No, no challenge,” Keith answers, and he almost sounds like he’s holding back a laugh. There’s a smile on his face, something rare enough that it feels like something to treasure. “I just think I could take you without much trouble.”

                Lance raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? You wanna test that theory?”

                Keith glances around them, at the drop mere inches away from Lance’s elbow. “Here? Nah, I’d rather not. I’d hate for you to trip and fall off of the edge of the roof when I’ve only just convinced you not to punch me on sight.”

                “You’re making me rethink that decision,” Lance grumbles.

                Keith huffs something like a laugh, and it feels something like the first truly warm day in spring after weeks of muddy snow.

                “I should get back home,” Lance says, without realizing that his mouth is moving until the words are out. Keith’s smile disappears, and he wants to punch _himself_ for it. “Just—I have tomorrow off, but Ma expects me to take the littles to the beach for the day.”

                Keith nods—more of a jerk of his head, but Lance’ll count it. “Yeah, you—you should go, then.”

                Lance stands, stretching out the stiffness in his back and shoulders, and pauses. Keith is very determinedly looking at the horizon instead of at him.

                “If you were there—you know, at the beach. If you just happened to be there at the same time as us, say, noon and most of the early afternoon…I’d probably say hi.”

                Keith looks up, and that smile is back. Small, fragile, barely there, but—there. “Yeah?”

                “Yeah,” Lance confirms, offering a half-smile of his own. “Can’t just ignore an old friend, can I?”

                The smile grows, and the same feeling that made Lance blurt out that he needs to leave wells up more insistently in his chest.

                He turns, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and starts to walk for the ladder.

                Halfway there, he pauses again.

                “Hey, Keith?” he calls.

                “Yeah, Lance?” Keith says, and when Lance turns, Keith is looking right at him, body turned, hand braced against the ledge like he was about to push himself up and follow.

                “By any chance…would you happen to know a guy named Shirogane?”

                Keith’s reaction is immediate—the blood drains from his face, and he shoots to his face, crossing the roof to where Lance is standing with something like panic and desperation on his face.

                “Where did you hear that name?” he demands, and Lance quirks an eyebrow at him, one hand half-raised between them. Keith shakes his head, tugging at the ends of his hair. “Sorry. Sorry. Just—how do you know that name?”

                “How do _you_ know that name?” Lance says, and Keith winces, like he was afraid Lance was going to say that.

                “I—he’s someone I knew a—a long time ago,” Keith says, stumbling over his words. His lips turn up at the edges, humorless. “An old friend.”

                “Yeah?” Lance asks. He looks up at the sky, then pulls out his phone and checks the time. He sighs. “I’m gonna regret this in the morning.”

                “Regret what?” Keith asks, bewildered, and Lance gestures for him to follow as he leads the way off of the roof.

                When they’re safely on the ground, Lance goes to the bleachers by the oak on the edge of the soccer field, and he sits on the top row, patting the spot next to him.

                “Come on, Kogane. I can tell you’ve got a story to tell,” he says, and Keith hesitates.

                “Don’t you need to get home?” he asks.

                “Should I? Yes. But as I said before—I haven’t got the greatest self-preservation instincts,” Lance says, smirking. “Now, sit. I’ll explain if you do.”

                “I feel like I’m doing a lot of that tonight,” Keith mutters, but complies.

                They sit closer than they did on the roof, limbs stretched awkwardly on the aluminum bleachers in the hopes of finding a way to sit that’s not horrifically uncomfortable. Lance regrets his choice of seating barely five minutes into the story, but by then it’s a little too late to relocate.

                The story is a long one, like he thought it would be.

                When he finally makes it home, it’s maybe an hour before dawn. He can see the edges of the horizon just barely starting to turn gray.

                He falls onto his mattress with Keith’s story swirling in his thoughts.

                _Things keep getting more complicated,_ he thinks.

                Somehow, though, as he lets himself finally relax into sleep, hoping to catch at least a couple of hours before the kids inevitably wake him up, he feels...lighter.

                Keith’s smile is the last thought on his mind.

                ……………………..

                Lance is baking in the sun with a picnic blanket acting as a buffer between his bare skin and the burning sand when a shadow blocks his light—and then hovers there until he cracks open his eyes. When he sees the person standing there, he sits up.  

                “Keith,” he says, and he’s—not surprised, exactly.

                Maybe pleased.

                Keith shrugs, a bit sheepish. He’s switched to shorts for the day—not for swimming, but at least he’s not in his usual pair of black pants. They’d probably give him heatstroke.

                “It felt like a beach day,” Keith mumbles, and Lance feels himself smiling at the red flush to Keith’s pale cheeks.

                “Well, you could certainly use one,” Lance teases. “You’re pale enough to be a vampire, y’know? Do you get any sun at all? Are you actually nocturnal? Is that why I only ever see you at night?”

                Keith opens his mouth to retort, but before he gets the chance, a blur of energetic limbs bolts across the sand to tackle Lance onto his back.

                The breath whooshes out of Lance’s chest with a soft _oof,_ and he has to shake his head to get his sun-drowsy vision to refocus. 

                “Lance!” the blur shouts, and materializes into the smiling face of his niece.

                “Lissa!” Lance exclaims, and digs his fingers into her sides, tickling her until she goes weak from giggles and he can lift her off of his stomach. “Are you and Mateo done with your sandcastle?”

                Her giggles disappear immediately into an exaggerated scowl, and she crosses her arms. “He won’t let me build a moat! Every time I try to dig one he fills it back in!”

                “Oh, is that right?” Lance asks. “Did he tell you why?”

                She harrumphs, still scowling. “He says that it’s because the castle deserves to be open to everyone. But that’s dumb! If it doesn’t have a moat, the monsters will get in!”

                “Hmm,” Lance hums, touching his chin and tilting his head in exaggerated thought. “What if you dig a moat, but fill in part of it as a bridge? That way, if the monsters try and attack, they’re easily fought away, but anyone else can still get in?”

                Melissa opens her mouth to object and then blinks, seemingly dumbfounded. Her scowl lessens into a frown, the stubborn remnants of irritation too easily resolved. “But—but what if—”

                “It’s Mateo’s castle too, right, Lissa?” Lance asks, and she hesitates before nodding reluctantly. “So you should both get a say in how you build it, then—right?”

                She stares determinedly at the blanket under her folded legs.

                “ _Right?”_ Lance presses, and she huffs.

                “I _guess,_ ” she finally replies. “I still think a bridge is dumb.”

                Lance smiles at her. “Go ask Mateo what he thinks. Maybe he’ll help you dig the moat.”

                She glances over to where Mateo is still single-mindedly attempting to carve turrets onto the top of his blocky towers.

                “Go on. You don’t want to leave him to finish the castle by himself, do you?”

                “No,” she replies. “I’ll go ask him if we can build a bridge.”

                And without saying another word to Lance, she stands and stomps through the sand until she’s next to Mateo, looking down at him.

                He can’t hear her ask, but he sees Mateo’s face light up with a smile as he nods, and he sees her plop to her knees in the sand next to him, grabbing a yellow plastic shovel and starting to scrape a circle around the castle.

                When he looks away from them, he remembers Keith, and sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck, standing.

                “Sorry about that,” he says, but Keith shakes his head. That blush of his is apparently determined to hang on for a while—his cheeks are still dusted with faint pink.

                “No, no—it was—cute—” Keith starts, voice weak, and somehow the blush deepens, red creeping down his neck and across what Lance can see of his pale shoulders.

                “Cute?” he asks, smiling faintly.

                “I—I mean—you’re good with them,” Keith says. “With kids, I mean. They’re your cousins?”

                “Oh, some of them,” Lance answers. “Liss is actually my niece, though. Her dad is my older brother, Toni.”

                “The one that was on the soccer team,” Keith remembers, and smiles faintly, exchanging a look with Lance that says he’s thinking back on the same moment as Lance on that first night they met at the playground. Then his eyebrows quirk in confusion. “Melissa?”

                Lance blows out an aggravated sigh. “I know, I know, right? It’s such an old-fashioned name, but Toni insisted on naming his daughter after her mom. They could’ve just gone with Lissa; it’s not like we call her anything else anyway.”

                Keith nods thoughtfully, looking back to where Lissa and Mateo are scooping sand together to make a bridge to their castle. “Who else is here?”

                Lance blinks in genuine surprise this time. He didn’t think Keith would be interested in his family—but the expression on his face is earnest and open and genuine. “Oh—well, uh, there’s Liss and Mateo, obviously; and then Josie and Gavin are around here somewhere…Gavin was supposed to be watching the beach while I tried to get in a nap, but he’s disappeared, apparently—oh, there’s Josie, in the water.”

                Keith follows his pointing finger, finding a young teenage girl splashing around the shallows with a handful of other kids of assorted ages.

                “With her, she’s got Diego, Cami, and Sofie—they’re my cousins—and then the youngest there is baby Hugo. He’s another of Toni’s.”

                “Is Josie your sister?” Keith asks.

                “No, no, she’s actually my niece. Her mom is my oldest sister Clara. Gavin is my younger brother, though; he should be around here somewhere…”

                “Lance!” a voice yells, and when he turns, Gavin is rushing towards him across the beach, grinning widely and brandishing a polished seashell. “Look! Look what I found!”

                “Gavin, buddy, I know you wanna add to your collection, but you were supposed to be watching Mateo and Lissa. There was a _moat_ crisis, Gav,” Lance scolds, and Gavin ducks his head a bit, but his smile barely dims.

                “Sorry, Lance,” he says.

                “Ehhh, it’s fine, _hermano,_ just—warn me next time, okay?” Lance reminds him, and he nods before thrusting his hands forward.

                “Look!” he shouts again, and Lance tilts his hands back and forth to inspect the shell, shining faintly in the sunlight and only barely chipped.

                “Hey, this is a good one! Nice find,” Lance praises. “Maybe for a necklace?”

                Gavin nods enthusiastically, cupping the shell like it’s something infinitely precious. “I wanna make one for Luna!”

                “From school?” Lance asks. Gavin nods. “Go for it, bro. I bet she’ll love it.”

                Gavin grins at him, and with a pang, Lance realizes that his little brother is now taller than his shoulders—he’s growing too fast.

                “Hey, why don’t you go help out Josie with the others? You can bring Hugo over here; I’ll watch him for a bit. We have to head back soon, so you should enjoy the water while you can.”

                Gavin nods, and carefully nestles the shell into the outer pocket of one of their beach bags before racing for the water, hollering a greeting at Josie as he goes.

                Mateo and Lissa are still content with their castle, a few yards away, so once Hugo is safely deposited into his arms, Lance settles back onto his beach blanket, giving Hugo a toy boat to occupy him.

                Keith sits next to him, after a brief moment of hesitation that was easily overcome by the hint of a glare from Lance.

                “How do you keep track of them all?” Keith asks eventually, breaking the silence that had built as Lance kept a watchful eye on his family.

                Lance laughs. “It gets a little difficult sometimes, not gonna lie. But I’m used to a big family—I’ve known them all as they’ve grown up, so remembering isn’t all that hard for me. When it gets to the extended family, though—no clue. There’s maybe a handful I could list off of the top of my head, but when it comes to the rest of them…well, your guess is as good as mine.”

                “Extended…family?” Keith asks, and looks something between confused and terrified at the prospect.

                “Oh, yeah. Like, here we’ve got us, and my mom’s brothers, and my mom’s parents. My dad has a whole host of sisters back in Cuba, but only one of them lives here in the States, so that’s not so hard. And then there are my nieces and nephews, and I’ve known all of them since the day they were born. If you grow up with it…well, it’s not something you can really forget,” Lance explains. “The rest, though? Honestly, I can remember most of my dad’s sisters on a _good_ day, but his mom has even _more_ brothers and sisters than he does, and the only one I can ever remember is Juanita, because she used to visit when I was little.”

                “You have—a really big family,” Keith notes, eyes wide.

                “Is it?” Lance teases. “I hadn’t noticed.”

                Hugo starts to fuss a bit in Lance’s lap, and Lance takes one look at his scrunched up nose and decides that it’s time for them to pack it in.

                “Josie! Gavin! It’s time to go!” he calls, and shifts onto his knees, Hugo balanced on his hip as he starts packing away their stuff. It gives him a bit of trouble, one-handed, but he mostly manages. “Sorry we couldn’t really talk, Keith; you came all the way out here only to keep getting interrupted by little kids, I bet that’s not really what you had in mind—Hugo, no, that doesn’t go in your mouth—I’d stick around for longer if I could, but he’s starting to fuss and when that starts to happen it’s time to go, so—damn this blanket, ugh…hey, hold him for a second, would you? Thanks, anyway; you can come back to my house with us if you want? We have popsicles, which, I guess if you’re older than twelve isn’t much of an incentive, but we could talk more, and my next day off isn’t until next Thursday—”

                “Do you need any help, Lance?” Josie asks, materializing at his right with a giggling Sofie held under one arm. “Who’s this?”    

                “Oh, sorry—” Lance starts, realizing that he hasn’t properly introduced Keith to anyone yet, and turns, only to see Keith holding Hugo at elbow’s length with such a perplexed expression on his face that he can’t help the grin that bursts into being on his face. “Hey, Keith, you alright there?”

                “I’ve never really—been around…kids,” Keith explains, still holding Hugo as though he’s a bomb that’s about to explode. For some reason, Hugo doesn’t seem to mind this treatment—he’s staring into Keith’s face as though he’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever scene, absentmindedly gnawing on his left hand.

                “I can see that,” Lance says, amused, and takes Hugo back from him. The relief that sweeps across Keith’s face is almost as funny as everything leading up to it. “Josie, this is Keith. He’s a friend from high school. Keith, this is Josie, and that squirming monster she’s holding is Sofie.”

                “Nice to meet you,” Josie says politely, which is unlike her. Then she adds, “Are you some sort of alien, then, acting like you’ve never seen a baby before?” Which is…about right, for Josie.

                “Oh—I—” Keith stutters, but Lance rolls his eyes and waves a hand at him.

                “Keith doesn’t get out much,” he says. “And don’t be rude, Josie.”

                Somehow—and it escapes Lance every time as to how they manage it—they get everyone wrangled together, even Mateo and Lissa, who were reluctant to leave what they’d decided was ‘the perfect sandcastle,’ in spite of their earlier disagreement.

                Lance lifts Hugo higher on his hip and adjusts the beach bag on his shoulder as the others start on ahead of him with Josie leading the pack—he brings up the rear to herd the stragglers. He pauses, looking to Keith.

                “So,” he says.

                Keith looks at him—at the brightly patterned swim trunks he’s wearing, the obnoxiously pink beach bag slung over his shoulder, and the drooling kid he’s holding on his hip.

                “So,” he echoes. “Popsicles?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i'm literally getting all of my energy from comments and kudos at this point so pls give them to me i'll love you forever


	4. new beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe, just sometimes, the reason old relationships have to be destroyed is so that new ones can be built in their place, stronger than they ever were before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took way longer than it should have but to be fair spring break is in a week and a half and that means all my professors are trying to murder me with midterms. next chap will hopefully not take as long. hopefully.   
> enjoy this one!

                Sometime when they’re about halfway home, Lance asks Keith if he would want to Skype Shiro, on impulse, and the look of desperate hope that seizes Keith’s expression makes him glad that he did.

                “Could I do that?” Keith asks, voice barely a whisper. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

                Lance shrugs. “Nah. You can even use my laptop, if you’d like. It might be best that way, honestly—I can ease him into it. Wouldn’t want to send him into an early grave with shock.”

                “Do you think—” Keith starts, and then cuts himself off. When he starts again, his tone is more subdued, almost scared. “What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

                “Of course he’ll want to talk to you,” Lance scoffs. “Are you sure you’ve met the guy?”

                There’s so much uncertainty in Keith’s eyes—he looks like a lost puppy.

                “Look, Keith,” Lance says, face and voice entirely serious, “Shiro told me yesterday when he brought you up that he though you must’ve had your reasons—good reasons—for leaving. He’s not mad at you. A bit disappointed, probably, that you didn’t feel like you could give him an explanation or come back later on, but—the man’s a saint, Keith. He has infinite amounts of patience. He’ll probably forgive you the instant he sees you, if he hasn’t forgiven you already.”

                 “Are you sure?” Keith asks quietly, voice small, and if it doesn’t damn near break Lance’s heart—

                This boy is a goddamn emotional hazard.

                “Yeah, man, I’m sure. Talk to him—you’ll see.”

                Keith nods, thoughtful. “Could we—do you think I could Skype him today? Would you mind?”

                Lance shrugs. “Fine by me. Once I’ve got these guys wrangled for snack time—popsicles, remember—Mama and the others can take it from there. They won’t mind.”

                Keith nods again, sharper this time, decisive. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, let’s do it.”

                Lance smiles at him, pushing away the feeling stirring in his chest. “You got it.”

                The rest of the walk goes by even quicker after that, and soon enough introductions have been made, popsicles have been handed out and consumed, leaving tongues stained various colors (Lance’s is blue, Keith’s is red, and honestly, what kind of self-respecting man chooses a _cherry_ popsicle), and they’re free of babysitting duty, at least for the time being.

                “My laptop’s set up in my room,” Lance says, and Keith follows him as he leads the way up the stairs.

                He hates how aware of Keith’s presence at his back he is.

                Lance walks into his room and immediately grabs a hold of the back of his extra chair, dragging it with him as he walks over to the desk where his laptop sits. He lets go when it’s next to the other chair, but out of view of the webcam, and points at it.

                “Sit there,” he says, and Keith obeys.

                The taut string stretched between them feels sharp, like the edge of a razor blade. Like if Lance breathes the wrong way, he’ll get cut.

                He doesn’t dare disturb the silence—he thinks that Keith needs it to collect his scattered thoughts, and he’d just as well avoid talking himself.

                Once he has the Skype window pulled up, he pauses and turns to the man on his left, studying his expression for a moment before he asks, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

                Keith blinks at him, like no one in his life has ever bothered to ask him such a question.

                “We don’t have to talk to him if you don’t feel ready, you know,” Lance tells him.

                “That’s an option?” Keith asks, smiling shakily—trying for humor.

                Lance leans back in his chair, tilting his body more towards Keith. “Yes, that’s an option. If you decide you never want to talk to or see him again, that’s an option too.”

                Keith shakes his head, fidgeting with a bracelet on his left wrist. “No, no, I—I want to talk to him. He deserves an explanation just as much as you did.”

                “Okay,” Lance nods. “Do you want to talk to him now? Because, again, you don’t have to—you can wait. He’s not going anywhere.”

                “You can’t know that,” Keith points out. “And I…I’m afraid if I don’t do it now, I won’t have the courage to do it in the future.”

                “That’s fair,” Lance concedes. He knows the feeling. “Then…are you ready?”

                Keith closes his eyes for a second, sucking in a deep breath. For just a moment, his shaking fingers still and settle.

                Then he opens his eyes, and they’re full of a steely determination that absolutely does _not_ remind Lance of why he liked Keith in the first place.

                “I’m ready,” he says, and he sits up straighter in his chair.

                Lance almost laughs—a wry half-grin twists his mouth anyway. “Alright, calm down there, samurai; you’re not going to war.”

                Keith fixes him with a wide-eyed stare, and Lance can see how scared he still is in that look, underneath the faux confidence and the impulsive surge of determination.

                “I might as well be,” he says.

                Dramatic as ever.

                Lance hits the call button, double-checking the video window at the bottom of the screen to make sure Keith isn’t visible in it. Probably, it’s better to break the news to Shiro gently.

                Reactions to being suddenly confronted by a ghost from the past can be very unpredictable.

                Matt answers—Lance was expecting Pidge, but it’s not so surprising or different to see her older brother’s face instead.

                “Hey, Matt. How’s the wedding planning going?” Lance teases, and Matt groans, throwing himself backwards and flinging his arms wide in dramatized exasperation.

                “Oh, Lance, it’s _terrible._ Apparently there are different shades of white. Did you know that? There are different shades of _white._ The florist flaked on us, the baker is a bamboozler, and Shiro thinks our stationery is stale because the person at the shop said it was a ‘solid choice.’”

                Lance grins. “So it’s brilliant, then?”        

                Matt brightens in an instant, matching Lance’s grin with an even bigger one. “Oh my god, Lance, I’m having the time of my life. I should’ve done this as a career.”

                “You wouldn’t last a single day dealing with the shit that straight couples try to pull,” Lance tells him.

                “Oh, shit, you’re right—wait, what if I just planned gay weddings? That’s a thing, isn’t it? Can it be a thing?”

                “Have you ever met a single gay person that doesn’t want to plan their own wedding?” Lance asks, and Matt’s nose wrinkles.

                “Stop crushing my dreams, asshole.”

                “I’m being realistic.”

                “You’ll at least let me plan your wedding, right?”

                “Never in a million goddamn years, Holt,” Lance replies cheerfully, and Matt clasps a hand to his chest in mock hurt.

                “What is this betrayal? My own best friend, my former butt buddy—an anal amigo, if you will—”

                “I’m gonnna stop you right there,” Lance interrupts, and stoically ignores the eyes on the side of his face, as well as the blush climbing up his neck.

                “Don’t deny our past, McClain! We had a lecherous love affair for the ages, full of intrigue and scandal—I will treasure those memories always,” Matt proclaims, and Lance has to fight the urge to bang his head against the edge of the desk.

                He wouldn’t normally be embarassed, but Keith is _right there,_ damnit—

                Oh, wait. No, nope, no.

                He makes a conscious effort to relax, pushing away his embarassment with sheer force of will, and crosses his arms over his chest.

                “You’re going to make your fiance jealous with that sort of talk, Matt,” he teases, smirking. “He might think you’re still in love with me, or something.”

                “Oh, the tragedy,” Matt sighs, clasping his hands together. “Poor, pure Shiro the Hero, betrayed by his fiance’s wanton debauchery with a beautiful Latino man.”

                “I would never be the other woman, Matt,” Lance says.

                “Alas! I’ll have to be happy with my enormously muscled hunk of a man rather than my lustful Latino lover. If only I could have you both.”

                Lance raises an eyebrow. “Is that your way of suggesting a threesome?”

                Matt laughs, finally breaking character, and Lance can’t help but grin.

                Once he’s caught his breath, Matt wipes tears away from under his eyes, still giggling occasionally, and shakes his head. “Man, I love you.”

                “That’s gay, bro.”

                “Have I got some _news_ for you,” Matt says, and Lance laughs.

                “Love you too, Matt. Has your aunt had another racist rage on Facebook? I noticed you were laying on the trope references pretty thick,” Lance says.

                “She’s killing me, Lance,” Matt replies, deadpan. “She commented on a post about our engagement and said that if I had to marry a man, at least I’d upgraded from ‘that horribly dirty Latin man’ to a ‘respectable Asian businessman.’ And then went on to insinuate that Shiro is my sugar daddy and I’m marrying him for his money, which is _hilarious,_ because Shiro is a graduate assistant going on college professor that makes less than I do.”

                Lance blinks. “I want to be offended so badly, but I think that’s actually a step up from last time.”

                Matt winces. “I’m still incredibly sorry about that, by the way.”

                Lance shrugs. “Bygones. And it’s not your fault that your aunt is a bigoted moron.” 

                “Ugh. I’m not inviting her to the wedding,” Matt says. “I don’t care if it breaks my grandmother’s heart, her awful daughter is not going to secrete her toady bigotry all over the best day of my life.”

                Keith starts to fidget restlessly next to him, and Lance glances over at him, deciding by his expression that if he doesn’t hurry this along, the guy’s likely to bolt.

                “Hey, Matt, I hate to cut our chat short, but I actually called to talk to Shiro,” Lance says, and Matt raises an eyebrow.

                “Really? Oh, wait, is it for advice about that guy? I don’t blame you, really, I’m shit when it comes to romantic advice, you know that—”

                Lance laughs again. “Yeah, Matt, _I know._ You were in denial about being in love with Shiro for how long, again?”

                “If I knew having a best friend meant constant bullying, I would’ve just continued being a recluse for eternity.”

                “Yeah, yeah. Go fetch your man, would you? I need his sagelike wisdom.”

                “Can I interest you in a meme instead?”

                “Matt.”

                “Okay, okay, fine. The longer we’re apart, the more out of touch with humor you get, Lancey. Gimme a second,” Matt says, and Lance watches as he stands, stretches, and turns to leave the room. Distantly, he can hear the muffled sound of shouting as Matt calls for his fiance, trying to find out where he’s gotten himself off to.

                Lance turns to Keith. “So that’s Matt.”

                “I know,” Keith says, and for a second Lance is startled before he remembers Keith mentioning that he knew the Holt family from his time with Shiro. “He hasn’t really changed much.”

                “Still a huge dork,” Lance agrees.

                Keith hesitates, and Lance can see the question on the tip of his tongue. “What did he—mean by all of…that?”

                “All of what?” Lance asks, trying to seem oblivious.

                Keith’s face is pained, and it takes him long enough to reply that Lance is wondering if maybe he’d drop the subject rather than embarrass himself further.

                “Butt…buddies?” he forces out, voice strained, and Lance has to choke back a laugh so hard that he can’t breathe for a full five seconds at the look on Keith’s face.

                Somehow he manages a casual grin. “Yeah, before Matt and Shiro got their shit together, he and I dated for a bit. Or—‘dated,’ I say, but mostly we were friends with benefits. It was a casual thing. No hard feelings when we called it quits.”

                Keith opens his mouth—to ask another question, maybe, judging by the furrow in his brow—but Shiro chooses that moment to walk through the door, hair mussed, clothes wrinkled, looking distinctly harassed.

                “Did Matt try to maul you in the kitchen?” Lance asks.

                “He pushed me off the couch,” Shiro replies, so petulant and hurt that Lance can’t help but laugh.

                “Were you napping? Wow, three weeks into summer break and you’re already letting yourself go. What would your students say?” 

                “They’d say I deserve the fucking rest,” Shiro grumbles. “Pidge and Matt dragged me into a video game marathon last night. I barely got any sleep.”

                “You’re just old, buddy. Hate to break it to you,” Lance says. “Have you started stockpiling sweatervests and weird-smelling tea yet?”

                Shiro’s face flushes as he sits, eyes still barely halfway open and clearly groggy from his nap. “They’re comfortable, okay? And I don’t know if I’d say ‘weird-smelling’…”

                “Oh my god, Shiro, you’re like a ninety year old man,” Lance whispers, elated at this new revelation.

                Shiro blinks at him, looking confused. “I am not.”

                Lance shakes his head. “Dude, embrace it. Apparently it works for you.”

                “I’m 25, Lance.”

                Lance smiles at him, and he’d really prefer to continue this—a normal conversation with a friend, mostly pointless, full of laughs, and _easy._

                But there’s Keith, still sitting next to him, looking more nervous than ever, biting at his thumbnail and staring unfocused at the screen.

                His other hand is holding onto the edge of the desk with a white-knuckled grip, as though he’s afraid of being pulled away from it.

                So Lance sighs, letting his smile fade, and turns his attention back to this laptop.

                “Look, Shiro, can we talk serious for a minute?” he asks, and Shiro blinks rapidly before nodding, sitting up straighter in the chair.

                “Sure, Lance. What’s up?”

                _Fucking Dad Mode in half a second, what the hell—_

“When we talked yesterday, about Keith, you told me a bit about a guy you used to know with the same name. Not a lot, but, well—right before you hung up, you said his full name, first and last, remember?”

                Shiro nods, looking mildly confused about where this conversation could be going but infinitely patient to find out, as always. “You might think I’m old, Lance, but I can remember what happened yesterday.”

                “Yeah, well…how the fuck do I even say this, honestly?” Lance mutters. “Okay, so you said you wished your Keith had come back like mine did, right? Even though you knew he had to have a good explanation, you still wanted to hear it from him?”

                Shiro’s eyes narrow. “What is this about, Lance?”

                “Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Lance growls, frustrated, and reaches forward to turn the laptop until Keith’s face is visible within frame.

                Watching the color drain from Keith and Shiro’s faces simultaneously is kind of funny, honestly.

                “Shiro, meet Keith—or meet him again, I guess,” Lance says. Neither of them say anything. Lance can’t even tell if they’re breathing. “So, turns out your Keith and my Keith are the same Keith. Weird, right? Personally, I’m kind of freaked out by the way the universe works—first Coran, the guy I’ve known since I was a kid, turns out to be Allura’s uncle, and now this thing with you two. I think whatever higher powers exist are just fucking with me at this point.”

                He pauses his rambling, hoping for one of them to break the silence, but neither of them do—they just stare in frozen, astonished silence.

                “Ooookay…Shiro, I got my explanation from Keith last night, so I figure it’s your turn. I’ve already heard the full story, so if you’d like to have some privacy…” Lance trails off vaguely, looking between the two of them. He’s about to speak up again when Shiro finally breaks the standoff.

                “Keith?” he whispers, and his voice sounds incredibly vulnerable.

                “Hi, Shiro,” Keith replies, more than a little awkward. “It’s been a while.”

                Lance takes that as his cue to leave the two of them—he stands, but before he can get far, Keith’s head snaps up to look at him.

                He doesn’t say anything, but Lance can read the message loud and clear in his eyes.

                _Don’t make me do this alone._

                “Relax, buddy, I’m just giving you two a little distance. I’ll be right here on the bed if you need me,” Lance reassures him, gesturing behind them.

                That wasn’t the plan, but—he’s always been a bit weak to those eyes.

                Keith’s shoulders relax, fractionally. He turns back to Shiro, at any rate, and as Lance sits back on the bed, absentmindedly flipping through an old magazine, they start to talk.

                It’s stilted, and slow, and painfully difficult, but they talk.

                Lance tries not to listen, because this is a private conversation; it’s not meant for him. He can’t help but catch a few sentences every now and then anyway, but that’s okay.

                Keith already told him the full story—he aimed for something like trust and hit the mark. This isn’t going to be another secret between them.

                They’re done with those. They’ve weighed too heavily before.

                ………………………….

                Lance does a lot of thinking, while Keith and Shiro talk and he pretends to read a magazine.

                He thinks about how they know each other—how close they’d both come to being brothers, once. How everything had been ripped away from them when Shiro’s parents died in the accident. How Keith had decided, with his less than spotless record and history in the system, that Shiro would have a better chance without him, despite how hard they’d been fighting to stay together.

                There was more to it, of course—Lance doesn’t know if Keith will tell Shiro all of it, but it’d come spilling out of his mouth like a dam holding all his secrets back had finally broken.

                Keith felt like he was a curse. Everywhere he went, bad things followed. Everyone he loved left—either willingly, like his mother, or through death, like his father and Shiro’s parents.

                And he didn’t want to lose anyone else.

                The logical step after that, usually, would be to hold on even tighter to the things that he cared for most, but instead he stepped away, and decided Shiro and the Holts who had been so generous through it all were better off without them.

                He left before anyone else could do it. He left so no one else could leave _him._

                It makes a few other things make a lot more sense, in retrospect.

                Lance knows, from Shiro and Matt, that after Shiro’s parents died, since he had no other relatives, the Holts ended up fighting to take him in.

                They don’t talk a lot about it, because it wasn’t a good time for any of them, but they won the battle. Shiro stayed with them instead of entering the system as a 16-year-old.

                If Keith had known that would happen, maybe he would’ve stayed. Maybe the Holts would’ve taken him in too, and he could’ve grown up with a family that loved him instead of suffering the abuse of his foster parents.

                Part of Lance is horribly, awfully happy that Keith didn’t stay with Shiro and the Holts—because if he had, they would never have gotten their summers together.

                “I’m sorry,” Keith murmurs, and Lance’s eyes flicker over to him against his will.

                He’s sitting at the desk still, hunched in on himself, and the raw pain on his face reminds Lance how much of an outsider he is during this private moment.

                He doesn’t understand why Keith asked him to stay.

                Shiro’s face on the screen isn’t very clear to Lance from his position on the bed, but he can tell that the guy has an expression that just screams compassion. He’s probably wishing that this conversation was in person so he could do something like put his hand on Keith’s shoulder or just go the extra mile and wrap him in a hug.

                Lance kind of wants to do the same.

                He tries to refocus on the magazine in his hand, but for some reason, an out of date quiz about which season he is doesn’t provide a very stimulating distraction.

                His phone is a little bit better, when he pulls it out, even if texting his friends during this moment feels like another breach of Keith’s privacy somehow. Or—disrespectful.

                It doesn’t make sense, but he ends up switching to Candy Crush after a few minutes anyway.

                “Keith, I have to go,” Shiro finally says, regretfully. “But I want to talk again, maybe in person next time, if you feel up to it.”

                Lance sneaks a peek and sees Keith try for a wobbly smile.

                “That’d be—good,” Keith says. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

                Shiro smiles warmly. “I’m sure.”

                That’d be a good place to end the call, probably, but Shiro hesitates.

                “Thank you, Keith,” he says, sincerity dripping from his tone. “For explaining—and for coming back.”

                “I should’ve done it sooner,” Keith replies, quiet. Before Shiro can disagree, he adds, “And thank you. For everything.”

                “Everything?” Shiro asks.

                “For—understanding. For not being angry. For forgiving me,” Keith explains, and it makes Lance’s heart sore.

                “Always, Keith,” Shiro says. “You’re my brother.”

                Keith’s face crumples in on itself—it’s one of very few times that Lance has ever thought Keith might be close to tears.

                He doesn’t let them fall, though.

                “I’ll talk to you again,” he promises, and Shiro nods.

                “I’ll hold you to that,” he says.

                The call ends.

                Keith’s expression is contradictory—happiness and terror warring for dominance in his eyes, like he’s just been given his first good news in ages and he’s waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him.

                Lance knows how he feels.

                “You wanna get out of here?” he asks, and Keith jumps, just a little, like he’d forgotten Lance was there.

                Maybe he had.

                He turns the chair to face Lance. His voice is raw, eyes tired, like every lost drop of energy has been wrung out of him. “Where?”

                Lance shrugs. “Anywhere. A drive. Somewhere that’s not here. We can run away from our problems together, yeah? That’s always better with company.”

                Keith blinks. He’s holding himself as though he’s expecting to have to run at any second.

                “Why?” he asks.

                Lance can hear the unspoken questions as crystal clear as if they were spoken out loud.

                _Why are you being so nice to me? Why do you care? Why are you helping me?_

Lance shrugs, casual, even though this is one of those make-it-or-break-it type of moments. “You seem like you could use a friend.”

                Keith looks at him, for long enough that Lance thinks he’s going to refuse.

                Then he says, “Okay.”

                ………………………………

                There’s something about driving that makes it easier to breathe.

                Lance can vaguely remember when he first started driving—he was so nervous that the driving instructor had to keep tapping his hands to remind him to relax his grip.

                Even after passing the test to get his license, he drove with excessive caution, and became immediately unsettled when he had to drive in less than favorable conditions—heavy rain, icy roads, thick snow, fog…

                He’s not sure when he finally relaxed, but at some point he came to realize that he was confident enough in his skills as a driver to let go of most of the anxiety.

                And that’s when he really fell in love with it.

                Driving, now, is one of his favorite escapes. The soft, cracked leather seats—the smooth, cool leather of the steering wheel creaking under his hands—it eases something in his chest.

                Maybe it’s the _possibility._ He climbs into his car, with a full tank of gas and hundreds of thousands of mileage on it already that doesn’t even belong to him, and he thinks, _I could go anywhere._

                Sometimes he does.

                Today he doesn’t.

                It’s not a day for running—at least not very far.

                He takes back roads, stretching out the drive for as long as he can. Keith is quiet in the passenger seat, watching the trees as they pass by.

                Music is quiet on the radio. The song is something old and slow that he only vaguely recognizes—it doesn’t matter. He’s not listening to it anyway.

                The late afternoon sunlight filters through the leaves and flickers at irregular intervals, casting misshapen shadows onto the road. It feels like they’re the only ones on the road; like they’re in another world where they could just drive through this sunny summer afternoon forever.

                They pull into the parking lot—a mixture of cracked, crumbling asphalt and gravel—after a far longer time than it usually takes.

                He doesn’t mind. They both needed the extra time, he thinks.

                “Where are we?” Keith asks. His voice is quiet, like he’s afraid to disturb the silence, and still rough.

                “I come here a lot when I need to think,” Lance answers. He puts the car in park and turns off the engine. “We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

                Keith looks around for a moment—at the unassuming parking lot, the dilapidated staircase that can only just be seen winding down through a copse of trees, the faint glitter of sunlight on water through the gaps between the trunks.

                He gets out of the car.

                Lance does the same—Keith leads the way, footsteps crunching on the rocks as he heads for the staircase.

                “Watch your step,” Lance warns. “The wood is pretty rotted.”

                Keith nods, and pays careful attention to where he places his feet.

                When they round the curve, Lance can hear Keith’s sharp intake of breath—he pauses for the briefest of moments on the stairs, just barely long enough for Lance to notice.

                He smiles.

                “Not a lot of people come here,” he says. “I don’t know if they just don’t know about it, or if no one really wants to bother after seeing how rundown everything looks from up top…but I’m glad it’s something I can mostly have for myself. Although I usually don’t come here during the day…”

                Keith looks over at him at that, head tilted curiously. “You don’t?”

                Lance shakes his head. “No. Sometimes I’ll get here just before sunset—I try to do that when I can, just because it’s always worth seeing, but it isn’t always possible.”

                “It looks like the sort of place that your family would really like,” Keith says.

                “They probably would,” Lance admits. “But they also know that part of being in a big family means we all have to have our own things, or else we’d go crazy. This is mine.”        

                “It’s beautiful,” Keith tells him.

                And it is—Lance had forgotten how incredible his small, secluded section of the beach really is. The beauty of it is a lot harder to see at night.

                There’s a dock that goes out over the water to one side, in much better than the stairs—sunbleached and obviously old, but solid nonetheless. A picnic table to match sits under the trees farther up the path.

                Long grass sways in the wind, dotted with the occasional patch of wildflowers. The water laps at the sandy clay of the beach, waves almost nonexistent here in this tiny bay. The sun sets everything aglow.

                It’s like they’ve stepped out of time. The moment feels like it could stretch on forever.

                “I forgot to ask you where your bike is,” Lance finally says, breaking the quiet. “I hope I didn’t nag you into leaving it at the public beach.”

                “No, it’s—I walked to the beach. I’m staying in the motel on the east side of town; it’s there.”

                “East side, huh? My sister lives a few blocks away from there.”

                “Everything is a few blocks away from everywhere in this town.”

                “Fair point.”

                They wander onto the dock, looking over the railing at the water—Lance runs his hands across the wood, letting his fingers trace the words and letters carved into it.

                There are benches there, attached to the dock itself, but they don’t sit down.

                Instead, they walk along the edge of the water, tracing the curve of the shore, listening to the tide change, before eventually choosing a patch of soft grass at the top of the bank to collapse onto.

                “I’ve never brought anyone here before,” Lance admits.

                Keith seems surprised by that—honestly, he’s not the only one.

                It doesn’t make any sense. The first person he chooses to share his secret beach with, and it’s the guy that he hasn’t forgiven for breaking his heart?

                “Why did you take me here?” Keith asks.

                Lance leans back, watching the sun dip closer to the horizon. If they stick around for long enough, they’ll be able to watch the sunset.

                “It’s a good place to think,” he says. It’s not even close to a proper answer—but Keith doesn’t push him.

                They sit and watch the water for a while. Somehow it doesn’t feel boring, although the sun is warm enough that Lance is tempted to lie back and take a nap.

                He would’ve expected Keith to get bored with it after barely a minute, but—it seems to be exactly what he needed. When Lance looks over, he’s got his head tipped back, eyes closed, just soaking in the warmth, unbothered by the breeze that ruffles his hair.

                Lance looks for longer than he should. Keith’s hair has gotten longer—not as long as it would be if he hadn’t cut it at all, but long enough that he could probably braid it if he felt so inclined. Although the varying length would likely make it pretty messy.

                His eyelashes are still unfairly long. If his eyes were open—but they aren’t.

                “Do you want to go swimming?” Lance blurts out, on impulse.

                Keith’s eyes fly open—he looks over to find Lance already looking at him, and that seems to surprise him.

                “Didn’t you already swim today?” Keith asks.

                Lance shrugs. “I could spend an entire day swimming and still feel up for more of it. But no, not really, actually—swimming with the kids is pretty much just wading around in the water. It’s not real swimming.”

                “You’re not wearing trunks anymore,” Keith points out.

                “Boxers work fine,” Lance answers. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to—but I think I’m gonna go for a swim.”

                Maybe if he dunks his head in the water, it’ll clear up his muddy thoughts.

                He stands, kicking off his shoes and walking a few steps away towards a large sun-warmed rock where he can keep his clothes off of the dirt. He sets his phone on it first, ignoring the flashing light that says he has a text, and pulls off his pants next, ignoring the niggling feeling of insecurity that comes with the knowledge that Keith is probably watching him.

                Nothing that he hasn’t seen before.

                Or, at least—most of it is.

                Lance forgets himself, just for a second, when he pulls off his shirt—the first time he has all day, even with his family on the beach, because he hates the stares he gets when he goes shirtless.

                There isn’t anything so dramatic as a gasp, but as soon as the shirt is off and he’s folding it carefully, Lance remembers and freezes, just in time to feel Keith’s presence behind him.

                When he turns, Keith’s eyes are on his back—on the scar there, huge and ugly, rippling across his skin over nearly the entirety of his back.

                Then his eyes flicker over the rest of him, taking in the other scars—the one on his jawline, that he’d probably already noticed; the one across his hipbone, the one on his left shoulder, and the one that stretches angrily over one side of his abdomen.

                There are more—those are the most noticeable. The least easily explained away.

                Keith’s eyes finally find his, and he has to look away at the raw feelings in those dark eyes. Not pity—Keith at least grants him that courtesy.

                Grief. Pain. Something incredibly similar to heartbreak.

                “What happened?” Keith asks, voice quiet enough to count as a whisper and softer than silk.

                Lance looks down and slowly finishes folding his shirt, bending down to set it on the rock on top of his pants.

                When he straightens, he looks Keith directly in the eyes.

                “If you stick around, maybe someday I’ll tell you,” he says, trying to pretend that his voice doesn’t shake just the tiniest bit. Then he grins—forced, but practiced often enough that it probably appears mostly genuine. “Race you to the water.”

                “That’s not fair—” Keith protests, immediately grabbing at his shirt to tug it over his head, but Lance is already running.

                ………………………………

                When they finally stumble out of the water, flushed and grinning and breathless, Lance has nearly forgotten that he’d spent so much time wishing he could hate Keith.

                They can’t be what they were. There’s still an invisible wall of tension between them, built from past mistakes, that they haven’t managed to push past yet. But if Keith really does plan to stick around this time…

                They could become something more than what they were. Something better.

                Lance hopes that they get that chance.

                Keith shakes his head like a dog when they get back to their clothes, splattering Lance with droplets of water.

                “Hey—” he says, laughing, indignant despite the fact that he’s already soaked, and without thinking about it, he reaches over to shove Keith’s shoulder, the same way he would if he were Hunk or Pidge or any of his closest friends.

                Keith freezes at the touch—Lance almost does too, but he decides to play it off, still laughing, and tries not to let the look of raw hope on Keith’s face break his heart.

                He’s not stranger to being touch-starved. He knows what that look is.

                “Come on; I’ve got towels in the trunk of my car,” he says, and starts to lead the way back up the dilapidated staircase. “You feel up to sticking around for the sunset? It’s worth seeing.”

                “You’re my ride, aren’t you? If you want to see it, I don’t have much of a choice,” Keith replies, and Lance stops in his tracks, spinning around to point a finger at Keith’s chin.

                “Okay, no—I’m not holding you hostage, Keith,” Lance says. “If you want to leave, right now, I’ll take you back to your apartment without complaining even a little. It’s _your_ choice—that’s why I _asked._ ”

                Somehow that seems to surprise Keith—and fucking hell, this boy just wants to kill him, doesn’t he? His heart wants to crack open, seeing the way that basic human decency _surprises_ Keith. That shouldn’t be how it is.

                Keith smiles—the smallest, most tentative thing Lance has ever seen, but it counts. “Watching the sunset sounds nice.”

                “Great,” Lance replies, turning around and continuing his barefoot walk back to the car. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

                “I will,” Keith murmurs, barely loud enough for him to hear.

                Bare feet on gravel is typically not a great idea—it stings the soles of his feet more than usual, since it’s been a while, but it’s bearable. Behind him, though, he can hear Keith mutter a curse to himself as he steps onto the rocks. He _almost_ feels guilty for forgetting that not everyone has feet as tough as his.

                “How are you walking on this?” Keith demands, and Lance turns around to see him wincing, stepping gingerly into the patches with the least amount of rocks.

                “City boy,” Lance teases, and Keith scowls at him. “I’ve been walking around barefoot for as long as I’ve been _able_ to walk. You just kinda get used to it after a while.”

                “ _Do_ you?” Keith mutters doubtfully.

                Lance pops the trunk of his car and tosses one of his spare towels at Keith’s face, not surprised in the least when he catches it easily, even distracted as he is by the pain in his feet.

                “Why do you have towels in your trunk anyway?” Keith asks.

                Lance shrugs. “I go swimming here a lot. And honestly they’re just good to have around, in case something spills or one of the littles decides to go splash around in a mud puddle.”

                They fall into silence again. That seems to be making up most of their interactions—the moments where neither of them know what to say.

                Once upon a time, Lance would’ve felt obligated to fill the quiet between them. Now, though…they’re figuring each other out. Sometimes words only get in the way of that.

                The grass is warm and dry where they eventually sit, only in their damp boxers, waiting for the summer heat to do its part before they put the rest of their clothes back on. The sun is hanging over the water, starting to turn everything golden.

                “Where have you been the past two years?” Lance asks, rolling his head to look at Keith. “What have you been doing?”

                Keith doesn’t look over at him, content to watch the crests of the waves turn red. “I haven’t really been—anywhere, honestly. Everywhere, I guess. I didn’t ever stay in one particular place for very long.” He shifts uncomfortably, tilting his head up just a bit to look at where the sky is starting to fade from bright, light blue into the darkness of night. “You could call it traveling. That’s what I usually tell people when they ask. But it was more like—you ever get this feeling, kind of like an— _itch,_ I guess, maybe? Where you just need to _move,_ and keep moving, and maybe never stop?”

                Lance looks at him—his hair, ends curling as they start to dry, eyes still roaming the sky, fingers picking at the grass. “Yeah,” he says softly.

                Keith’s eyes flicker to him, then—away just as quickly, like it prickles at his skin to see Lance watching him, but that moment feels like a step into deeper understanding. “It was like that, mostly. I was running, and once I started, I couldn’t convince myself to stop. I had to, sometimes, to pick up odd jobs so I could pay for gas and food and shitty motel rooms, but I had a lot saved by graduation that I’d been planning to spend on tuition, so I never had to stay anywhere for long.”

                “Why didn’t you go to college? You applied, didn’t you?” Lance asks. They’d had a conversation about it, once, during one of their nights. It hadn’t lasted very long, and neither of them shared details, but they’d both mentioned that they were applying to several schools.

                Keith blinks, tilting his head forward to watch the horizon again. “You know, most people would just assume that I’m a lazy bastard that didn’t feel like putting in the effort.”

                Lance wrinkles his nose. “Really? Even other people our age?”

                Keith just nods. There’s a pile of ripped grass next to his hand.

                “Guess I’m not most people, then,” Lance says.

                Keith looks at him, then, for longer than half of a second. His eyes linger, even as he says, “No. You’re really not.”

                Lance isn’t sure what to make of that.

                Keith looks back at the sunset. “I did apply. Got in to most of the schools, too. But when it came time to send out confirmation letters…it just didn’t feel worth it anymore. Whatever motivation I’d had for it once was just—gone, and I had no idea what I wanted out of my future, but that wasn’t it. It’s what everyone expected out of me—what everyone _wanted,_ I think, because of course the whole ‘foster kid succeeds in life despite difficult past’ is society’s favorite story to tell. That’s what really decided it for me, I think—knowing that whether I got a job immediately after graduation or went to a good college, I’d be meeting someone’s expectations…the world never cared what I wanted for myself, you know? I didn’t want to be another story for social workers to tell kids like me, and it would’ve been so easy me to end up like that. I didn’t want to be a cautionary tale or some inspirational bullshit. I didn’t want to be used anymore.”

                “So you disappeared,” Lance says, and Keith nods, looking down at his hands.

                “So I disappeared,” he repeats, quiet. “In retrospect, it was kind of stupid. Can’t say I regret most of it, though. I met some interesting people. Saw some interesting places.”

                Lance smiles, and finally looks away to watch the sunset instead of the way the colors of it set Keith’s silhouette on fire. “That sounds nice.”

                “It is,” Keith agrees. He leans forward, bringing his hands into his lap and twisting a piece of grass between his fingers. “I think I’d like to try having somewhere to come home to, though. Just to see what it’s like.”

                “So you’re sticking around for a while?” Lance asks, tone deceptively light. They both know that this is a more important question than it sounds.

                Keith looks at him, hands abruptly still. Then he smiles, crooked and genuine. “Yeah. Sticking around.”

                “Guess I’ll be seeing more of you, then,” Lance says.

                “Only if you want to,” Keith replies.

                The sun is almost entirely below the horizon. The sky is shot through with yellow and orange and red and purple, the waves are crowned with flame, and the treetops are alight with golden halos.

                It’s beautiful.

                After one blissful, lingering moment, the sun disappears entirely. The loss of its warmth feels abrupt, even as long as they’ve been watching. A breeze kicks up—maybe it was always there, but now it raises goosebumps on their bare skin without the sun to counteract it.

                “I think I wouldn’t mind,” Lance whispers, just loud enough for Keith to hear him.

                And that brilliant smile makes every risk he’s taking worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, all! if you like it, pls give kudos and comments. see you next time!


	5. Despīértate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance's past just can't seem to leave him alone.

                They don’t talk much in the car. Lance drops Keith off at the motel he’s staying at—only a few blocks away from where Val lives, as he’d said, and still as sad and dilapidated as it’s always been. The outside is a bit deceptive, though, because Lance knows the owner, Anita, and she’s always done her best to keep the rooms in as good of a shape as possible.

                It’s still not the best place for anyone to be spending their nights.

                As he’s pulling out of the parking lot, forcing himself not to look back and see if Keith is watching him drive away, he’s tempted to go to Val’s and tell her about the buzzing under his skin and the way it gets worse every time Keith looks at him.

                He goes home instead.

                It’s late, by the standards of kids with bedtimes. He should’ve been in bed an hour ago, if he wanted to get a decent amount of sleep before work in the morning.

                He doesn’t really care.

                Considering how much has happened today—the beach with the kids, Keith, Skyping Shiro, the beach again—he should be able to fall asleep easily.

                And he’s exhausted, that’s true. But his brain won’t stop spinning enough for him to get some rest.

                He sighs, opening his eyes and rolling over to stare at his ceiling. He starts counting the stars, glowing faintly in the dark, and hopes that it’ll help tire out his thoughts.

                _One, two, three…_

                Somewhere between forty-seven and fifty-three, he falls asleep.

                _The metallic smell of blood is everywhere, filling his nostrils, his throat, until he chokes on it—his coughs are wet and painful, like his lungs are trying to escape through his mouth._

_The jeering laughter of the indistinct silhouettes above him echoes mockingly, and he wishes that he had any energy left to fight back._

_To make them regret their laughter._

_Lights flash—blue and red, red and blue, and there are sirens now, and,_ oh, Levi must’ve gotten somewhere safe to call the cops.

                _The shadowy shapes of his attackers suddenly still, laughter cutting off, and then they start cursing, falling over each other in their rush to get away from the lights. Someone’s foot connects solidly with Lance’s ribs one last time before they disappear down the street, footsteps pounding away from him, and then there’s someone else standing over him—no, kneeling, at his side, shaky hand cupping his face._

_“Hey, hey—oh, god, I’m so sorry, this is my fault…” the voice sobs, and Lance tries to sit up, wincing, but they push him back down._

_It’s not just the smell of the blood that’s everywhere. It’s sticky, coating his hands, his stomach, the ground underneath him, and he wishes that everything was clearer so he could see the person apologizing to him._

_Everything is a blur of lights and colors and sounds, and he just wants the pain to stop._

_“Lance!”_

                He wakes up abruptly, breath ragged, soaked with sweat, and nearly falls out of bed, knocking his elbow against the wall as his body jerks, still reacting to the nightmare even as it drains from his thoughts upon the sight of his familiar ceiling.

                “Fuck,” he gasps out, and rolls into a sitting position, cradling his head in his hands as he tries to remember how his lungs work.

                As he calms down, he realizes he can hear crying in the other room—Hugo, it sounds like. Toni must’ve taken another night shift.

                He exhales, shaky, and stands on equally shaky limbs, hating that something as simple as a nightmare can do this to him.

                And it had to be _that_ nightmare.

                _But why…?_ he starts to ask himself, and then he remembers Keith’s pained eyes as he saw Lance’s new scars, hand hovering like he wanted to touch, voice soft as a whisper as he’d asked, _“What happened?”_

                “Fuck,” he mutters again, and stumbles down the hall to the guest room that the kids stay in when they have to sleep over.

                Hugo is in the play pen, sitting up, chubby arms clutching his bunny plush as he cries—it hasn’t reached screaming levels yet, luckily, or it would’ve woken Mama and Dad on the first floor.

                They need their rest. And Lance—well, he probably won’t get any after that nightmare anyway, so he might as well make himself useful.

                “Shhh, Hugo, what’s the matter?” he asks, reaching down to lift him up and into his arms, grabbing his blanket as well to wrap it around him.

                Hugo’s sobs quiet to soft hiccups and sniffles almost as soon as he’s settled against Lance’s chest, and Lance rocks slightly from side to side, shushing him and talking in as soft a voice as he can manage, all too aware of the bed behind him where Lissa sleeps.

                “Is it because Toni had to pick up a late shift again? You miss your Papa? Aw, yeah, I know, it sucks. But he’s trying his best, buddy. It’s hard with your mom gone.”

                Hugo’s eyes are already starting to droop—Lance can tell that the poor kid is exhausted. He remembers when Gavin was this age; he had trouble sleeping, and ended up crying out of frustration because of it more often than not. One of the things that sucks most for a kid is when they’re tired but can’t get to sleep and don’t understand _why._

                “Alright, c’mon, kiddo,” Lance murmurs, settling Hugo more securely in his arms and shuffling out the door. “Let’s get you a fresh diaper and some milk, and then I’ll sing you your lullaby. Okay?”

                The stairs at night are always a hazard, but Lance manages them with an ease born from years of practice. There’s a basket with baby supplies in the laundry room, which Lance takes full advantage of so that he doesn’t have to risk waking Lissa up more than necessary.

                Once Hugo’s been changed, Lance carries him to the kitchen, muttering softly to him the entire time.

                “I know you miss your Papa, but it’s not so bad to spend the night with Tio Lance, eh? You get to hang out with your favorite uncle, and then you get to see your Papa almost all day tomorrow! Sounds like a win-win to me,” Lance says, filling a sippy cup a quarter of the way up with milk. He catches a glimpse of the clock on the microwave and winces. “Although…I love you, kid, but waking up for work in the morning is going to be a struggle.”

                He gets a glass of water for himself, holding the sippy cup by the handle with a finger of the hand holding Hugo while he drinks.

                “Gotta hydrate if I’m gonna sing, you know? Wouldn’t want my voice to be all scratchy,” Lance says, tone conversational. Hugo mumbles sleepily in response. “Yeah, exactly. Don’t want my voice to give out ‘cuz my throat is dry.”

                He sets his empty glass in the sink once he’s finished, switching the precariously hanging sippy cup to his now unoccupied hand as he heads back up the stairs.

                The sheets on his bed are still twisted up from his nightmare, and Lance feels tension gathering at the base of his neck from the lingering effects of his panic.

                Hugo lifts up his head, sleepy eyes peering blearily at Lance—probably he could sense Lance’s change in mood. Kids are much more perceptive than people usually give them credit for.

                “I’m fine, Hugo. Just a bad dream, is all. We can be sleepless together for a bit, yeah?”

                He piles his pillows against the headboard so that he can prop himself up against them, settling Hugo gently into the crook of his arm and handing him the sippy cup. Hugo immediately takes several huge, greedy gulps of it, like he hasn’t had anything to drink in days, and Lance taps the edge of the cup and then his nose to chastise him.

                “Ah ah, greedy guppie, slow down. Sips, okay? You don’t wanna make yourself sick,” Lance says. Hugo listens—or, it seems like he does. It might be that it’s just a coincidence. Whichever it is, he slows down, lowering the cup and licking his lips. His eyes, wide and suddenly more awake than they have been since Lance first went to him, stare up at Lance expectantly. “What?”

                Hugo blinks at him.

                “Hmm, you haven’t forgotten about the lullaby, have you, _chiquito_?” Lance asks, amused. Hugo just takes a sip of his milk, still staring. “Okay, okay. I haven’t forgotten either, promise. Can you ask?”

                Hugo’s brows furrow in something like annoyance, and Lance smiles.

                “Yeah, yeah, that wasn’t part of the deal. C’mon, _niño,_ I heard you saying Josie’s name yesterday. Lance is even easier. You can say that, hey? Tio Lance. See? Easy. T-i-o L-a-n-c-e,” Lance enunciates, drawing out the words.

                “Papa,” Hugo mumbles. Lance winces.

                “Ah, no, _niño,_ not Papa. Tio. Lance. Tio Lance. Such a little thing, _chiquito;_ you can do this for me, right?”

                “Tio,” Hugo grumbles. Lance pats his head affectionately.

                “Yeah, okay, good enough. Even though I know Toni taught you that one already. I’ll get you to say my name before I go back to school, though, I swear. Can’t have you going around not knowing the name of your favorite uncle, right?”

                Hugo sighs noisily, taking another sip of milk.

                “Right, right. Lullaby. Hmm, let’s see, which one is it that Toni sings to you again…? Ah, right.” Lance clears his throat, scrunching down into his pillows a bit more and tucking Hugo’s blanket around his waist. “Now, listen, I know you’re used to Toni singing, and since he’s as tone deaf as they come, I doubt you’ve got very high standards for this sort of thing. Still, though, I don’t sing often, you know, so you’re not allowed to be all quiet-kid-judgey at me if I’m terrible, okay?”

                For some reason, Hugo doesn’t seem very inclined towards judging Lance for his bad singing. Maybe he’s too young. He reaches out a chubby hand, and Lance offers a couple of his fingers for him to grab onto, which he does happily.

                Lance smiles fondly at him, forcing away the pang of sadness at his chocolate curls and wide blue eyes that are so much like his mother.

                “Okay, _chiquito._ You ready?” Lance asks. Hugo squeezes his fingers as if in reply. “ _Duérmete mi niño, duérmete mi amor, duérmete pedazo de mi corazón…”_

                He keeps his voice low, trying not to wake anyone else, and finds himself only mildly surprised that he remembers the lyrics of the lullaby so well. It’s the same one his Mama used to sing for him.

                “ _Este niño mío que nació de día, quiere que lo lleve a la dulcería…”_

                When he reaches the end of the lullaby, he starts over, softening his voice as Hugo’s eyes start to droop. About halfway through the third repeat, he hears his door creak open.

                “Tio?” a groggy voice asks, and he turns to see Lissa standing in the doorway.

                “Oh, did I wake you? _Lo siento,_ Lissa, I was trying to be quiet. Your brother is having trouble sleeping,” Lance explains.

                “Are you singing our lullaby?” she asks, quiet, and Lance can see the longing on her face.

                So he gestures her over, putting a finger to his lips to remind her to be quiet, since Hugo is finally starting to fall back into sleep.

                “C’mere, Liss, you can join us…the bed’s big enough for all of us. A sleepover with Tio Lance; that’s fun, right? There you go, under the blankets.”

                Once she’s settled on his other side, and they’ve all been moved to fit together comfortably, with one kid under each of his arms, he starts singing again, rubbing his hand in soothing circles on Lissa’s back in the hope that it’ll help her get to sleep sooner.

                His voice is starting to crack by the time they’re both asleep, but he looks at the peaceful expressions on their faces and can’t bring himself to mind, even as uncomfortable as his position is.

                He doesn’t think he’ll sleep, but eventually, lulled by the sound of their soft breathing, he finds himself slipping back into blissful, dreamless rest.

                ………………………………………..

                “Lance. Ay, _hermano,_ c’mon. _¡Despīértate!_ ”

                Lance blinks awake slowly, squinting at the blurry figure hovering over him. “Toni?”

                Toni grins broadly, a look at odds with the bags under his eyes. “Finally. I’ve been trying to wake you up for five minutes.”

                He shifts, trying to sit up, and when weights on his arms stop him, he looks down, memories of the night flooding back as he sees Hugo and Lissa both asleep against him.

                “I’m a bit stuck,” he observes, and Toni chuckles.

                “Mm, I noticed. They wake you up last night?” Toni asks.

                “Hugo was crying,” Lance answers, deciding to leave out the fact that he’d already been awake because of a nightmare. “They miss you at night, you know?”

                “I know,” Toni replies, eyes troubled. “Sorry they kept you up.”

                “Nah, it’s no big deal; I don’t mind. They’re good kids; fell asleep pretty quickly when I started singing to them.”

                Toni raises an eyebrow. “You sang to them?”

                “Yes, and I’m sure it was a nice change for them to not have to listen to your terrible voice,” Lance teases, and Toni flicks him in the forehead.

                “They love my singing,” Toni tells him.

                “Only because they don’t know better,” Lance retorts. “You gonna help me outta this, or no? I’ve gotta get ready for work.”

                “I know,” Toni says, carefully starting to lift Hugo off of Lance’s left arm. “That’s why I woke you up.”

                After several minutes of painstakingly rearranging Hugo and Lissa, and one brief moment of panic where Hugo started to stir a bit and they both held their breath until he settled again, they manage to free Lance from his bed.

                “You should sleep, Toni,” Lance says softly, clasping his older brother on the shoulder.

                “I wanna be here when they wake up,” Toni argues stubbornly.

                “You’ve got at least an hour until then, maybe two,” Lance points out. “Just a short nap. You’ll feel better.”

                “And where would I sleep? The floor? That’s hardly comfortable.”

                Lance rolls his eyes. “Climb in bed with your kids, bro. You’ll wake up as soon as they start moving around, and you’ll get some rest somewhere that isn’t a couch or the floor. You look terrible, Toni. Sleep.”

                Toni blows out a breath, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head, sheepish. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Just a nap, though.”

                “Just a nap,” Lance confirms. As Toni goes about finding a way to lay down in the bed that won’t wake up either Hugo or Lissa, Lance gathers what he’ll need for work and takes them with him to the bathroom so that he won’t have to come back into his room and risk disturbing Toni and the kids.

                As he gets ready, he decides to ignore that the bags under his own eyes are nearly as bad as Toni’s.

                He’ll do something about it later. Right now, he has work.

                ………………………………….

                “Did you hear that Coran’s taking applications to hire someone new?” Val asks, somehow perfectly capable of making small talk even as she holds a tire in place for Lance as he bolts in back on.

                He grunts in acknowledgement. “Did he finally fire Ian?”

                “No,” Val replies, then grins. “Ian quit. Something about how he’d finally realized his true calling was to become a rapper, or maybe it was an interior decorator? Something as ridiculous and out of the blue as you’d expect from Ian.”

                “Finally,” Lance says. “He was killing me, Val.”

                “I’m just curious about how he got hired in the first place. Coran is usually much more thorough when it comes to vetting new employees.”

                “It wasn’t Coran that hired him, remember? Ian applied when Coran was on extended leave and Reggie was temporarily in charge. He’s never been super great at reading people.”

                “Riiight. And Coran sucks at firing people.”

                “Yup. Man’s all about second chances. And third, and fourth, and fifth…”

                “He’s truly a gift to this world.”

                “He truly is.”

                Lance finishes tightening the bolts and backs off of it, signaling to Val that it’s safe for her to let go. He checks it one last time to make sure it’s good, and then he picks up his tools and puts them back where they belong.

                “So…” Val starts, leaning against the tool bench. She arches an eyebrow.

                “So…?” Lance asks, pretending cluelessness.

                Val rolls her eyes. “I heard that you had a visitor yesterday. An ‘old friend from high school.’ Mama was all stirred up about it, because somehow you had a friend she’s never met or heard of.”

                “Mmm,” Lance hums.

                “ _So._ I guess things went well, then?”

                Lance sighs. “I listened to him. It’s all still…a bit of a mess. But it’s been two years. We’ve both grown up a lot since high school.”

                “Following after Coran’s example, then?” Val says. At Lance’s questioning look, she adds, “Giving him a second chance.”

                Lance taps his fingers thoughtfully against the edge of the wooden bench. “I…guess? Turns out Shiro used to know him, back in the day, so…that sort of adds to the mess of everything. I let Keith use my laptop to Skype him yesterday. Figured Shiro deserved an explanation as much as I did, if not more.”

                Val’s expression turns abruptly serious, and she straightens, putting a hand on his shoulder and gripping harder than strictly necessary, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Lance. I know that what you had with this boy way back when was something special. And I know that you want to give Shiro a chance to reconnect with someone that, from the sound of it, was someone he cared about. But you have to promise me that you’re not going to start putting everyone else’s feelings before your own. You don’t _have_ to give Keith a second chance. You don’t _have_ to forgive him. Even if he is different now…he still hurt you. You are by no means obligated to forgive or forget that.”

                Lance blinks at her, surprised by the sudden concern. “I…know that?”

                “Do you, Lance?” Val asks, without dropping her gaze. “Look, I remember those summers. I remember how tired you were all the time, how bad things got…and a huge part of it was because you were always putting everyone else before yourself—before your health, before your well-being, no matter how awful you felt—and we were _letting_ you. Don’t do that again, okay? If you need space, if you need time, if you need to never see or talk to Keith again—if that’s what you need, hell, if that’s what you _want—_ then do that. Don’t put your own needs and wants on a backburner because you think others are more important.”

                “Others _are_ more important,” Lance argues. Val starts to object, recoiling, the concern in her eyes only growing, but he bats away her hands and turns to face her completely. “I like to prioritize the people I care about, Val. Is there anything wrong with that?”

                Val shakes her head, expression sad. “No, Lance, there isn’t. I admire you for that, actually, a lot—how easily you care for others. But caring for others at the cost of your own health _isn’t worth it._ Please just…think about that? I care about _you,_ Lance. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

                Lance makes an effort to drop the tension in his shoulders—he knows what she means. He knows that he has a habit of getting carried away, of getting sucked into his own empathy and forgetting to take care of himself. He knows that she’s speaking up out of genuine concern. “I know, Val. I know. I’m sorry for getting defensive, I just…I don’t know how I feel right now. I don’t know what I want.”

                Val raises her hand back up, hesitantly, to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Well, I’m here if you want to talk it out. And also if you need someone to kick your ass back into gear. How’s your self-care routine been lately, baby bro? When was the last time you did a face mask?”

                Lance shakes his head, smiling at her teasing tone. “I’ll do one tonight. Maybe I’ll talk El and Leo into doing one with me—we could have a self-care night. Disney movie marathon. Blanket fort.”

                “Sounds like a solid plan to me,” Val says, tone encouraging. “I trust you to make the right decision, Lance. You’re not a kid anymore. But take care of yourself, okay?”

                Lance smiles, grabbing her hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “Okay. Thanks, Val.”

                She smiles back at him, and Lance feels something settle between them that he hadn’t realized was out of place.

                They go back to work. Lance thinks about what she said, and forces himself not to get defensive at the analysis just because it comes from someone that’s not either himself or a therapist—it’s true, after all.

                And maybe the reason he’s been feeling so run-down lately is because he’s been doing exactly what she’s afraid of him doing, and forgetting to take proper care of himself in his hurry to take care of everyone else.

                He texts Hunk on his lunch break.

                **lanceylance:** hey bro u got time for lunch at sonny’s this fri?

                **hunkybear:** oh god yes pls

                **hunkybear:** also I’ve always got time for u bro <3

                **lanceylance:** aww bro <3

                He feels better after that, even if their conversation barely lasts for another two minutes, and it’s only them going back and forth with cheesy lines that would probably get them the stink eye from Pidge because she’s allergic to affection.

                Maybe he hadn’t realized exactly how much he misses his friends. Or—at least how much it’s affecting him.

                On his way out, Coran calls after him.

                “Lance, my boy, could you hold back just a moment?” he says, jogging to catch up with him.

                “Of course, Coran. What is it?” Lance asks, and Coran places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to his office.

                “Oh, nothing serious, I assure you. You’re a customer favorite, as always,” Coran assures him. “I just had a question for you about an application I received today.”

                Lance’s brow furrows. “Why are you asking me?”

                “Well, if my memory serves me correctly, you know the fellow who’s applying,” Coran answers. He leaves the door to his office ajar behind them, letting his hand fall from Lance’s shoulder and busying himself with sorting through the mess of papers on his desk. “Now, I know it’s around here somewhere…a-ha!”

                He brandishes a sheaf of papers triumphantly, waving Lance over to look at them.

                “See here? I wasn’t sure, at first, of course, as it’s been a while…but that hair isn’t exactly forgettable, is it?”

                And, of course, because the world seems especially fond of messing with Lance lately, the name ‘Keith Kogane’ is scrawled clear as day at the very top of the first page, right under ‘Applicant Name.’ There’s a black and white photocopy of his driver’s license paper-clipped to the right corner, and there he is, mullet and all.

                “Of fucking course,” Lance mutters.

                “What was that?” Coran asks, looking up from the application. “Do you know him, then?”

                “Yeah, he’s…an old friend from high school,” Lance answers, which seems to be his go-to lie these days. But then, it’s not _exactly_ a lie, is it?

                “Does he know his way around an engine?” Coran says. “He seems to have a bit of practical experience…some odd jobs at garages here and there…built his own motorcycle, quite a feat there…”

                “I haven’t really talked to him about his resume,” Lance replies. “But…yeah, he knows a bit. Better than Ian ever was.”

                Coran twirls his mustache thoughtfully, leaning back against the edge of his desk. “Are you still friends? Would it be a problem for you two to work together?”

                Lance looks up at that, startled. “Oh—no, I—I don’t think it would be? A problem, I mean. I don’t think it’d be a problem. We…get along.”

                Coran nods slowly, eyes narrowed on Lance’s face, apparently searching for something—a sign that he might be lying, maybe. “Well, if that’s the case, you won’t mind if I pull him in on a probationary basis, will you? He’s the best applicant we’ve gotten so far.”

                “Ah—no. No, I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

                “Excellent! You can show him around then, too, right? I think it’d be good for him to shadow one of our experts for a few days, get to know the place…yes, that’s perfect. You’re free to go now, my boy! Sorry for holding you up.”

                “Wait, Coran—what? What do you mean, show him around? Can’t you do that? The newbies usually shadow you, don’t they? Coran!”

                “See you tomorrow, Lance! Enjoy the rest of your evening!”

                And with that, having ushered Lance easily out of his office, Coran shuts the door on his protests, seemingly oblivious to the dismayed expression on Lance’s face.

                He stands there for a moment, open-mouthed with shock, and then he shakes his head and groans, rubbing his temples.

                “This is just like the time he volunteered me to clean out the storage closet,” he mutters, and walks away.

                ………………………….

                The itch beneath his skin finds him on his drive home and only increases once it’s been acknowledged.

                “Fucking hell,” he mutters, scratching his arm raw, hand gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles turn white.         

                He thinks about calling Hunk, but he’s been so busy lately…they’ll have lunch on Friday, and that’s already taking up enough of his friend’s time. He can’t bother him with this.

                When he pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine, he just sits there for a moment, staring at the logo on the steering wheel.

                The house is quiet, when he finally goes in. He worked opening shift again this weekend, so he’s home earlier than usual, and everyone’s probably out at the beach or the library or somewhere similar.

                Normally, he comes home and goes to the kitchen for a snack and then either spends time with the kids or crashes in his room to reply to all the texts from his friends he’s missed throughout the day. But today, the roiling in his stomach rules out food as an option, and he’s not sure he has the energy to pretend to be okay with his friends.

                He knows he doesn’t have to pretend, with them. But they have enough on their minds. He can deal with this. It’s fine. He’s fine.

                At school, the easiest way to burn off energy was to go to the rec. Here at home, the nearest YMCA is two towns and forty-five minutes away, and they’ve adjusted life accordingly to have at least the minimal of workout equipment in the basement, but it’s still not particularly conducive to a great workout.

                They have a punching bag. That’s a start.

                He changes out of his coveralls, leaving them in a heap on the floor and not bothering with a shower, since he’s just about to get super sweaty and it’d serve no purpose.

                The loose muscle shirt he puts on first gets switched for a regular tank top after he catches a glimpse of his scars in the mirror.

                He almost doesn’t bother wrapping his hands. But then he remembers the last time he’d done that, and the concern it’d earned from his friends and family when they saw his split knuckles, and he thinks about the conversation he had with Val earlier in the day.

                He wraps them.

                Falling into a rhythm is easy. This is familiar. This is simple. This is so much better than letting the anxiety catch up and overwhelm him.

                When his arms get wobbly and start to shake, he stops, breathing heavily, hooking his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.      

                The buzzing in his blood is still there.

                He moves on to pushups, until his arms give out on him and his chin hits the mat hard enough to make him bite his tongue.

                “Ow,” he mutters to himself. “Arms are out, then.”

                He does lunges. And squats. And then he runs up and down the stairs a few times.

                And somehow it’s still not _enough._

                He sighs, rolling his shoulders and wishing that the nervous energy gathered in his chest would go away.

                His fingers tap against the wall, and the energy grows instead of recedes, and he runs up the stairs, and then up to the second floor to his room, where he grabs his phone, ignoring the blinking blue light that tells him he has at least one text, his keys, and his wallet, and heads out the door, forcing himself not to slam it behind him.

                Val’s apartment is across the town. Five miles.

                That’s doable.

                He starts running.

                …………………………

                “You did _what?”_ Val screeches, and Lance winces, making a mental note that sometimes it really might be better to lie. “What do you mean, you _ran_ here?”

                Lance shrugs, tapping his finger against the side of the water bottle she’d thrust into his hand nearly immediately upon seeing him in the doorway, sweat-drenched and out of breath. “I mean that I ran here. Not the whole way, but—most of it. It’s just five miles; that’s not a big deal.”

                Val blinks rapidly, apparently taken aback by his statement, and then she grabs a coupon catalogue off of the kitchen counter, rolls it into a tube, and smacks him on the head with it.

                “Ow!” he yelps, rubbing his scalp. “What was that for?”

                She points the catalogue at him, one hand on her hip, and the rage in her eyes strikes him silent. “You listen to me, Lance McClain—if you _ever_ do something this ridiculously stupid and self-destructive again, I will _make you regret it._ ”

                “It’s not a big deal,” Lance mumbles, staring down at his water bottle.

                “Not a big—bull _fucking_ shit it’s not a big deal! You ran five miles, in the summer heat, without any water or breaks. You’re sweating buckets, your knuckles are bruised—don’t _think_ I didn’t notice that—and you’re so worn out that your entire body is _shaking._ And after everything I said to you today—is this supposed to reassure me? Is this supposed to make me feel better? You’re falling apart, Lance.”

                Lance stands at that, every muscle in his body suddenly rigid with tension. “I’m _fine._ Maybe this wasn’t the best decision, but I’m not—I’m not ‘ _falling apart,’_ Val. That’s not fair.”

                “When was the last time you talked to your friends?” Val demands.

                “I asked Hunk out to lunch this Friday earlier today,” Lance answers, stiffly.

                “I mean when was the last time you _talked_ to them, Lance? A week ago? Two?” Val presses, and Lance shrugs, uncomfortable.

                “I don’t know, maybe a week—I don’t think it’s been _that_ long—” Val throws up her hands at that, as though it’s all the evidence she needs, and his defensiveness starts to grow into something like anger. “That doesn’t _mean_ anything, Val! I’m not so helpless that I fall apart the moment I’m away from my friends.”

                “We _all_ need people, Lance. Your friends are your support—and for the record, because I _know_ you, no matter how busy they are or how happy they are, they’re not going to resent you for feeling bad. They love you, and they want to be there for you. That’s not conditional. That’s not a sometimes sort of thing.”

                “I know that, Val,” Lance says, struggling to keep his voice even.

                “Do you, though?” Val asks. She sighs, some of the anger draining out of her shoulders. “This isn’t—this isn’t _healthy_ behavior, Lance. You’re not taking care of yourself. I don’t know what’s going on, why you’re spiraling, why you won’t talk to your friends—but you can’t go on like this.”

                “I’m _fine,_ ” Lance insists. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

                Val presses her knuckles against her lips, like she’s trying to avoid saying something she’ll regret, and Lance notices that her hands are shaking.

                “I’m going to drive you home,” she whispers, and turns, walking out of the room to get her keys.

                Lance closes his eyes, rocking back on his heels, and wonders when everything got so complicated.

                The drive is awkward, to say the least of it. Neither of them says a word the entire time, and when they finally pull up in front of the house, the tension is thick enough that they could cut it with a knife.

                Val doesn’t look at him when she breaks the silence, just as he’s reaching for the door handle.

                “I know that you don’t want to feel like a burden to the people you love,” she whispers, eyes carefully fixed on the steering wheel in front of her. “But I don’t want to look at my little brother and see a ghost standing where he used to.”

                Lance doesn’t slam the door.

                ………………..

                “Ay, _mijo,_ where have you been? Your dinner is in the microwave, I thought it best to save you some. Were you out with friends? Is that Val’s car?”

                “Sorry, Mama, I should’ve texted you. I went on a run,” Lance answers. He wraps his arm around her shoulders in a loose hug, kissing her on the cheek, and she pats his shoulder affectionately, attention still half occupied by the dirty dishes she’s washing.

                “Oh? Yes, I see, you’re all sweaty,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Eat your dinner, _niño—_ then go take a shower.”

                “Is this your way of telling me I smell?” Lance asks, teasing, and she nods, reaching a soapy hand up to wave her hand in front of her nose.

                “Yes, terribly. Now get your stinky self out of my kitchen,” she orders, smiling, and he drops one last kiss on the top of her head before doing as she says, grabbing the plate she made for him from the microwave and heading to his room.

                It’s barely 8pm—bedtime for any littles staying the night, although it looks as though Toni managed to avoid a late shift for a second day in a row, because there’s no light on in the guest room. He passed El and Leo playing video games in the living room, with Gavin hovering behind them and asking rapid-fire questions about every little detail that catches his eye.

                He shuts the door to his room, sitting cross-legged on the floor to avoid getting sweat all over his blankets, and eats his way methodically through his dinner while he scrolls through all the texts he’s been ignoring.

                Most of them don’t require a response—a good 90% of them are all from the group chats he’s in. One is from Hunk, as a last reply to the conversation they had at lunch that Lance had just barely missed, judging by the time stamp on it.

                When he gets to the most recent notification, his hand hovers above it for nearly a full minute before he clicks.

                **Keith Kogane:** do you want to meet up tonight?

                Part of him wants to laugh at how much it sounds like what his hookups usually say—the other part feels a familiar flutter of nerves at the similarity.

                _No, fuck you,_ he thinks at his stomach. _Not this boy._

                He puts down his empty plate, holding his phone with both hands and playing with the edge of his phone case as he debates what he wants to say.

                His entire body is one big ache—he’s exhausted, and yet somehow he knows that if he tried to sleep, he’d spend the night staring at his ceiling again.

                He does need to take a shower, though.

                Instead of responding immediately, he stands, putting his empty plate on his desk instead of the floor, and heads into the bathroom attached to his room, turning on the water to let it warm up.

                He sets a clean, folded towel on the counter, and pretends that he’s not avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

                His skin care products get pulled out of the cabinet and lined up next to the towel. He pulls up a Spotify playlist on his phone, something neutral that hopefully won’t worsen his mood.

                The eyes of his reflection catch his attention in the misty mirror, much as he wished they didn’t, and he looks, just for a moment, at his ashen, tired face and the scars on his chest.

                He sends his reply before he jumps into the shower, letting the hot water and steam wash away the grime of the day, and hopes that he’s not making another in a series of mistakes.

                **lanceylance:** what did you have in mind?

                …………………………

                “Gotta admit, this isn’t even close to what I figured you’d spend your free time doing,” Lance says.

                Keith shrugs, smiling faintly. “Can’t always be a delinquent, can I?”

                “You could try,” Lance replies. “But I think I like this better.”

                They’re at a pier, in the town nearest theirs along the coast, about a half hour’s drive away. It’s much larger than their hometown, and has obviously fared pretty well as a tourist destination, providing money for upkeep and expansion that manifests in the uncracked sidewalks and recently repaved streets.

                Lance usually steers clear, just because some of the snootier shop owners have a tendency to be assholes to anyone who’s not either a local or a tourist. Tonight, though, there’s some sort of festival going on—Keith had explained it a bit, but he hadn’t really been listening. A charity event, maybe? Arts festival? Whatever it is, there are booths up all along the pier, and several rides are up and running at one end, including a Ferris wheel. A section of the beach has also been taken over by the event, and a temporary stage holds a live band that actually sounds pretty decent, even if Lance has never heard of them before.

                “Is this a one-night thing?” Lance asks, looking to Keith for the answer.

                “No, it goes all week,” he says. His hands are in his pockets, and he looks almost relaxed for the first time all night. This is familiar to him, then—he’s spent time here, or in places like it.

                “Makes sense. Guess it’d be a bit weird to have a festival in the middle of the week, even in summer.”

                “Yeah…you have work in the morning?”

                “Yup,” Lance says, popping the ‘p.’ “But I wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight anyway. This is at least a less boring option than staring at my ceiling all night.”

                Keith looks—almost worried at that, even though Lance’s insomnia isn’t anything new. Maybe it’s too much of a reminder of the way things used to be.

                “I’ll just have to make sure that it’s worth it for you to miss all that sleep, then, right? C’mon,” Keith says, and grabs his wrist out of instinct to lead him through the crowd.

                He seems to rethink it after a moment, glancing anxiously up at Lance’s face to make sure he hasn’t crossed a line, but Lance doesn’t bother pulling away, and offers a smile before gesturing with his free hand for him to lead the way.

                “What kind of plans do you have for us tonight, then, samurai? You gonna spend all night trying to win me a stuffed animal from one of the booths?” Lance teases.

                Keith rolls his eyes, even as Lance can see the hint of a blush staining his cheeks. “Well, _now_ I’m not.”

                “Well, damn,” Lance swears, pouting. “Guess you’ll have to find another way to entertain me.”

                He tries to pretend that he’s not flirting, but as oblivious as he can be, he can’t quite manage it. And that’s—well, he’s not sure how he feels about it.

                Obviously he could just _stop_ flirting, but…at the same time, the temptation is a bit hard to resist. And part of him wants to, even after everything, which makes it even more difficult.

                It won’t come to anything. Probably. They’ve been down this road before—nothing happened then. Nothing will happen now.

                “What color cotton candy do you prefer?” Keith suddenly asks, and when Lance looks up, he’s eyeing a booth filled with dozens of bags of the stuff.

                “What kind of question is that? Blue is the only right answer here.”

                Keith looks at him, opening his mouth as if to argue, and then seems to rethink it. “You know, I want to argue with you…but I really can’t. Blue is better.”

                “ _Thank_ you. Hunk, bless his heart, is still convinced that pink cotton candy is better, and Pidge, the absolute gremlin, says that all colors taste the same,” Lance says. He’s almost babbling—Keith doesn’t seem to mind.

                “Has she even _tasted_ it?” Keith asks, and Lance flings an arm out, like _‘yes, exactly.’_

                “I know, right? We’ve all tried to convince her of the error of her ways, but she’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met, so. No luck so far. I’m determined to bring her over to the sane side of things eventually. Blue is always the best.”

                Keith’s eyes linger on him for a second longer than usual at that for some reason, before he replies with, “Yeah. It is.”

                _Is he flirting back?_

                “Wait here,” Keith orders, and before Lance can protest, he’s let go of Lance’s wrist and is walking over to the booth, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as he goes.

                “Dork,” Lance mutters to himself, smiling fondly even as he says it.

                The smile disappears almost as quickly as it appeared, because—he’s letting himself fall. He’s letting himself get carried away in the neon lights and the smell of hot dogs and funnel cakes and cotton candy and the glint of it all in the liquid darkness of Keith’s eyes.

                “Fuck,” he mouths, and shakes his head at himself. _Get it together._

                A stranger stumbles a bit too close to comfort, hand brushing against his thigh, and Lance stiffens on instinct, stepping away and looking to identify the potential threat—they’re already walking away, having not even noticed the accidental contact, ushering their kid along to the rides at the end of the pier.

                Lance stares after them for a moment, hating the tension in his shoulders from what should be a normal encounter.

                He’s just on edge because he’s tired. That’s all.

                “I got a big bag,” Keith says, announcing his return and drawing Lance’s attention back to him and the enormous bag of blue cotton candy in his hand. “Figured we could share.”

                “Sounds good,” Lance replies, summoning a smile. Keith seems to recognize something off with it—another warning sign that Lance is letting him get too close—and positions himself next to Lance in a way that blocks him from the majority of the crowd, as though by instinct.

                “You okay?” he asks, eyes wide and earnest, and Lance nods quickly, grabbing hold of the cotton candy to reach in for a handful.

                “Fine,” he says, not meeting Keith’s eyes. “Where to next, samurai?”

                Keith doesn’t accept it easily—he stays still for a moment longer, searching for something in Lance’s face, and apparently decides to respect Lance’s wishes not to talk about whatever’s bothering him, reaching into the bag for his own handful of cotton candy. “What’s up with that nickname, by the way? I don’t think you’ve ever explained it to me.”

                Lance shrugs, smirking. “You’ve never asked for an explanation.”

                “Well, I’m asking for one now,” Keith replies, easy, and offers the cotton candy to Lance again once his first piece has melted into sugar in his mouth.

                “It’s not much of an explanation. Just a conversation we had—maybe you remember it, maybe you don’t. We were both pretty drunk. We were talking about how things seemed so much easier when we were kids, and I told you that I used to want to be an astronaut, and then you told me—”

                “—that I used to want to be a samurai warrior,” Keith finishes. “You remember that?”

                “Of course I do. I spent half the night teasing you about it,” Lance says, bumping Keith’s upper arm in a friendly way with his elbow. “Figured the nickname suited you.”

                “I don’t have a sword, though,” Keith points out, and Lance almost feels sorry for how easy this man makes it to tease him.

                He raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Don’t you?”

                Keith’s entire face immediately flushes red, and Lance laughs, taking the opportunity to steal the cotton candy and run down the pier towards the rides, following the flashing lights.

                “Wha—Lance!” Keith calls, taking off after him. “Wait up!”

                “Catch me if you can, Kogane!” Lance calls back, and runs faster.

                Eventually, Keith does catch him, grabbing a fistful of the back of Lance’s shirt to yank him to a stop and pluck the bag of cotton candy triumphantly from his grasp.

                “I win,” Keith declares, shoving a handful of cotton candy into his mouth and then pointing his sugar-sticky finger in Lance’s face. “ _Thief._ ”

                Lance grins, stepping back to lean against the railing along the side of the pier. “Just keeping things interesting.”

                “You could do that just by entering a room,” Keith mutters, and before Lance can respond, adds, “How do you feel about Ferris wheels?”

                “Love them,” Lance responds instantly. “Haven’t been one in years.”

                “Sounds like you’re overdue, then. Come on.”

                And Lance lets Keith take him by the wrist again, leading him to the line at the gate of the Ferris wheel, where kids and couples and groups of friends all wait for their turn on the ride, bubbling with excited chatter and the occasional laugh.

                They don’t talk while they wait, content to stand next to each other and share their cotton candy. Lance watches all the people go before them, climbing into the small cars and pressing up against each other, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, often holding hands, and starts to wonder if this is a good idea.

                And then it’s their turn. And Keith is right _there,_ and Lance can smell the piney scent of his soap, and he can know for sure that this is a terrible, very bad, no good idea.

                He does it anyway.

                “I haven’t done anything like this in years,” Lance admits, watching and feeling giddiness bubble in his chest as they rise into the air, overlooking the twinkling lights of the pier to their right, and the ocean to their left.

                “It’s been a while for me too,” Keith says, voice quiet as he takes in the view. “This sort of thing tends to be more fun with company, you know?”

                Lance blinks, turning to look at the side of Keith’s face, at the years of loneliness etched there just beneath the surface.

                “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

                It pauses at the very top, to let someone at the very bottom climb out of their cart. Just for a moment. Just long enough to let them take it all in.

                “Everything always looks so beautiful from up high,” Keith says, and Lance hums agreement.

                He’s not looking at the view.

                …………………………..

                The night ends before either of them really want it to—but a good majority of the booths and rides get shut down by midnight, since it is, after all, a weeknight, and the festival is mainly for families anyway.

                As they’re making the trek back to Keith’s motorcycle, Keith clutching a stuffed hippo that Lance had won him after his shooting skills had been doubted, and Lance holding what’s left of the cotton candy, he realizes…he doesn’t want to go home.

                This isn’t the first time he’s felt that way. It’s just…been a while since it’s been so insistent.

                He sighs, tilting his head up to look at the stars as they walk, trusting Keith to warn him if he’s about to run into something, like a person or a car or a pole.

                “What are you thinking?” Keith asks, and Lance feels a hand brush lightly against his lower back—Keith’s, guiding him, ready to catch him should he trip.

                Unexpectedly, the touch doesn’t make him flinch or tense up.

                “I’m thinking…” Lance starts, humming thoughtfully, “that I’m still not ready to go home, even after being gone nearly all day.”

                Keith’s footsteps falter—not like he’s tripped, more like he’s been distracted.

                “You could stay at my place for the night,” he offers, voice quiet, and Lance tilts his head back forward to look at him, surprised. Keith continues before he can answer, babbling on. “It’s not much—just a shitty month by month rental, but there’s a futon you could sleep on, and a kitchenette, and I went grocery shopping so there’s actually food in the fridge, and I wouldn’t mind taking you to work in the morning—”

                “Are you sure?” Lance asks, and wishes he could punch himself in the face.

                “Oh—uh, yeah? I don’t mind,” Keith replies, shuffling his feet awkwardly. The stuffed hippo tucked under his left arm looks very out of place. “If you don’t want to go home, you shouldn’t have to.”

                Lance laughs. “I wish it was that easy.”

                “Maybe it can be,” Keith suggests. “At least for tonight.”

                Lance looks at him.

                It’s night, but they’re in town, and the streelights lining the sidewalks light his face. Lance wonders when their roles were reversed, and Keith became the one trying to save him, instead of the other way around.

                Or maybe they’re trying to save each other.

                “Maybe for tonight,” Lance repeats. “You sure you’re fine with it?”

                He has a spare pair of coveralls in his locker at work. He can sleep in his boxers if he has to—the only reason he usually doesn’t is because of his scars, and Keith has already seen them.

                “I’m sure,” Keith says, voice firm.

                “Guess we better get going, then. Work in the morning. Don’t you have a meeting with Coran tomorrow, too?”

                Keith looks alarmed, suddenly, and grimaces regretfully. “He told you, then. I meant to ask if it was okay with you—”

                “It’s fine, Keith,” Lance cuts him off. “Coran and I already talked about it. He remembered that I knew you, so he wanted my opinion.”

                Keith looks afraid to ask the question that’s obviously on the tip of his tongue, but he does anyway. “What’d you tell him?”

                “I told him you were a good hire,” Lance answers, honestly. “That you know your way around an engine.”

                “You didn’t have to do that,” Keith says.

                Lance shrugs. “It’s true, isn’t it? Besides, from what I remember, you’re miles more competent than Ian was, and I was about an inch away from throwing a wrench at his face—I don’t think I’d survive working with another guy like him.”

                “Still—thanks,” Keith says.

                Lance nods in acknowledgment, and realizes that they’ve arrived at Keith’s motorcycle. He points to the stuffed animal under Keith’s arm. “You want me to hold the hippo?”

                “Her name is Red,” Keith says, passing her over to Lance with an amused glint in his eyes.

                “Keith, she’s purple. She’s a hippo.”

                Keith just shrugs, unlocking the helmets from his bike and passing one to Lance, swinging his leg over the bike and settling onto it with an ease that makes something in Lance’s chest prickle with interest.

                He shoves the feeling away, climbing on after him, sandwiching the hippo and the cotton candy between them after making sure that his helmet is fastened properly.

                “Why Red, though? I don’t get it,” Lance continues.

                “It’s a better name than Purple,” Keith replies.

                “Okay, but it doesn’t make any sense.”

                Instead of responding, Keith starts the motorcycle, effectively drowning out Lance’s comments with the roar of the engine, and Lance shakes his head and lifts the hand he has wrapped around Keith’s waist to flip him off.

                Keith just laughs—and then they’re gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed reading, please leave kudos and comments! I read every single comment I get and often gush about them to my friends, so...know that they're a huge part of what keeps me writing!  
> see you next time.


	6. rhythm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long since i updated! college has gotten pretty insane in the last month; it's only gonna get worse in the following weeks, since the semester is wrapping up. thanks for your patience!

                Lance stares at his reflection in a mirror that’s not his own, taking as much time in the bathroom as he can without Keith getting suspicious.

                _What am I doing?_ he asks himself.

                He doesn’t know the answer.

                The room is nicer than he expected. The apartment might be a cheap one, locally owned, and the floral print wallpaper might be a little outdated, but Thelma definitely makes an effort to keep her facilities clean and comfortable.

                Keith gave him a spare toothbrush to use. He keeps wondering why Keith would have a spare toothbrush, which is stupid, because Hunk always keeps a spare and Lance never thought that was weird, so why is it weird for Keith to have one—

                Because there’s a possibility, however small, that he keeps them for when he has overnight company.

                Lance’s expression turns sour, and he spits toothpaste into the sink, turning on the faucet to watch it all rinse down the drain.

                Part of him wants to take a shower—he smells like wind and sugar and fried fair food—but it’s late, and he has work in the morning.

                With Keith. That’s going to take some getting used to.

                He sighs, rinsing the toothbrush and setting it next to the one that’s already out on the counter. Keith’s. It’s blue. The one he gave Lance to use is red.

                When he opens the bathroom door, Keith is wearing his boxers and an oversized tshirt, putting bedding on the fold-out futon.

                Lance is wearing pretty much the same thing. He wonders if maybe Keith is wearing a shirt to make him feel more comfortable about staying over.

                “Thanks for letting me stay,” Lance say, not for the first time.

                “It’s really okay, Lance,” Keith replies, smoothing out a wrinkle in the sheet. “You don’t need to thank me. I know what it’s like to not want to go home.”

                Lance just nods, tired. It’s—it’s different, he knows that. He thinks that Keith knows that, too, but…he doesn’t want to argue about it. He doesn’t want Keith to think he’s ungrateful for this.

                He loves his family. He loves his home. But sometimes everything just gets to be too much.

                “Do you need anything else? Water? Something to eat?” Keith asks, turning around and blinking earnest, uncertain eyes at Lance.

                “No, I’m—I’m fine. Thanks.”

                “Okay. Um—goodnight, I guess.”

                “Goodnight, Keith,” Lance says, voice soft, and climbs under the covers.

                The futon is surprisingly comfortable. He can hear Keith getting comfortable in his bed across the room—breathing starting to slow down and smooth out, the rustling of the blanket as he moves—and it feels all too intimate.

                _What am I doing?_ Lance asks again.

                He still doesn’t know the answer. But he thinks of all the things he did with Keith earlier in the night and can’t help but smile faintly—and maybe that’s the beginning of an answer.

                Normally he’d have trouble sleeping in an unfamiliar place, if he managed to sleep at all. But somehow, almost as soon as he closes his eyes and forces the tension to fall from his shoulders, rest finds him, dissolving his thoughts into the soothing black of sleep.

                ………………………..

                Friday morning, Lance wakes up an hour before his alarm after a restless night and can’t get back to sleep no matter how hard he tries.

                He’d use the time to work out, but it’s early enough that he’d probably wake up the rest of his family with the noise, so he just grabs his phone from his bedside table and starts scrolling through tumblr.

                He has lunch with Hunk today. He’d be lying if he said part of him isn’t dreading it.

                Hunk has always had a way of seeing through his bullshit. And if he’s gotten bad enough that Val has noticed…then it’s unlikely that Hunk, even distracted by all he has going on this summer, won’t realize that something’s off.

                Lance would still like to deny that anything’s wrong at all. But if he’s honest with himself, he knows that he’s been getting bad again.

                He wishes he knew what keeps causing his relapses—then he could just make efforts to avoid it, and stop falling into these awful spirals of self-destruction. This time around, he knows it’s been made worse by all the emotional turmoil he’s currently struggling with regarding Keith, but he was starting to feel the effects before Keith ever came into the picture, so he knows he can’t blame him for it.

                The light from his window starts to filter in, dim and gray, but a sure sign of the dawning day. He has a half shift at the garage today, until noon, and he’s supposed to meet Hunk for a late lunch at one.

                Maybe he’ll be able to get his shit together enough by then that Hunk won’t notice anything. It’s a long shot, but it could happen.

                He slides out of bed, stumbling across the room and picking up clothes from his floor, raising them to his nose to sniff them in the hopes of finding something clean enough for lunch with Hunk—he hasn’t really had the chance to do laundry lately, okay?

                He’s still half asleep. That’s the only reason he doesn’t realize. But he sniffs the tank top in his hand without thinking about it, and immediately his nose fills with the stale scent of fried fair food and sugar and wind, and suddenly he’s wide awake.

                His hand lowers slowly, and he lets himself fall backwards to sit on his bed. It’s been several days since he went to the fair with Keith—since he stayed over at Keith’s apartment.

                Since he woke up to Keith’s gentle touch on his shoulder and the smell of shitty coffee and brushed his teeth with Keith’s spare red toothbrush, since Keith drove him to work on his motorcycle and they’d stopped at the gas station to grab breakfast sandwiches before they had to be there, since Lance had spent the day with Keith hovering like a shadow at his shoulder as he taught him the way of the garage—and they’ve barely said anything to each other.

                At work, of course, when they cross paths, they’ll maybe share a few minutes of conversation before heading separate ways. Keith had only shadowed Lance for a day and a half before it became clear to both Lance and Coran that he knew his way around a garage and had been let loose on the simpler tasks like tire rotations and oil changes.

                But they haven’t texted. They haven’t met up again.

                Maybe Keith is waiting for Lance to initiate something this time. Maybe Lance should just bite the bullet and text him.

                He thinks that every time Keith crosses his mind, which is, admittedly, a lot. But as many times as he’s pulled up Keith’s contact on his phone and stared at the screen, as many times as he’s typed out a simple ‘hey’ or a ‘do you want to meet up again’ or ‘my cousin accidentally drop-kicked me in the stomach and now I have a MASSIVE bruise,’ he’s never been able to hit send.

                The more days that pass in this weird in-between stage of things, the more unsure he gets.

                What if they’re not meant to start over? What if he was stupid for giving Keith a second chance? What if he’s just going to get his heart broken again? What if he’s the one that breaks Keith’s heart this time?

                Around and around he goes, always in circles. What if, what if, what if.

                He rolls his shoulders, as though to shrug off the uncomfortable thoughts, and tosses the tank top into the far corner of his room, hoping it’ll stay there, forgotten, until he’s figured things out.

                Then he pulls a clean undershirt from his dresser and pulls on his coveralls, making a mental note that he really ought to do laundry tonight.

                His skin care routine is minimal this morning, mostly because he doesn’t have the motivation to do the full thing.

                After he’s rinsed and dried his face, he stares at his reflection in the mirror, watching a few missed drops of water trickle down the side of his cheek.

                He takes a deep breath. Then another. Rolls his shoulders again, in the hopes that some of the tension will disappear from them.

                When he opens the door, he’s pushed thoughts of Keith and their whatever-it-is to the back of his mind, buried with the rest of the things he doesn’t want to think about.

                It’s time to face the day.

                ……………………………..

                The first thing Hunk says when Lance climbs into the passenger side of his car is, “Dude, you look like shit.”

“Man, come on,” Lance complains, shutting the door and slumping in the seat, arms crossed. “I haven’t seen you in weeks and that’s how you greet me?”

“Sorry, bro. Just telling it like it is. When was the last time you slept?” Hunk asks, looking him up and down, as though inspecting him for visible injuries.

“Last night,” Lance grumbles. Hunk raises an eyebrow.

“When was the last time you slept _well_?”

“Like, a week ago?”

“ _Lance.”_

“What? That’s normal.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“It’s normal for _me._ ”

“That doesn’t make it healthy!”

“I’m not doing it on purpose!”

Hunk opens his mouth to continue arguing, then pauses, inclining his head. “Okay, fair.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, blowing out a loud breath before shifting the car into reverse and backing out of Lance’s driveway. “Sorry, bad start. How was work?”

Lance wrinkles his nose. “Boring. Have you and Shay done the devil’s dance yet?”

Hunk glances over at him, distracted by the image in the rear view mirror and only half paying attention. “What?”

“You know, the horizontal tango. Four-legged polka. Glazing the donut, hanky panky, pants-off dance-off—”

“ _LANCE.”_

“Oh, c’mon, you knew where this was going. How long have we been friends?”

“Too long,” Hunk mutters, and shakes his head, starting the drive to Sonny’s. “No, Lance, Shay and I haven’t had sex. We’re just friends.”

“I would literally bet my entire collection of sex toys that you two are gonna get married.”

Hunk doesn’t respond to that, uncharacteristically, and when Lance looks over, he’s knocking his knuckles thoughtfully on his thigh, steering with one hand.

“This is you trying to distract me from the fact that you’re spiraling, isn’t it?”

_Well, fuck. That didn’t take long._

“How do you always _know_?” Lance demands. At this point, he knows that he won’t be able to deny it. Hunk has superpowers.

Hunk rolls his eyes. “We’ve been friends since kindergarten, Lance. I can practically read your mind at this point.” He slows, turning his blinker on to pull into the parking lot of Sonny’s. “And you’re not going to be able to distract me from caring about you, Lance. You’re my best friend.”

Lance sighs. “Yeah, buddy. I know. Thought I’d give it a try, though, you know? Didn’t wanna worry you.”

Hunk parks the car, pulling into a spot next to a battered pickup truck that Lance recognizes as belonging to Sermy, one of the regulars at the bar and restaurant. He’s a lonely old biker with a gruff voice and a heart of gold that’s helped nearly everyone in the town out of a tough spot more than once. He’s better company than the grumpy bartender.

“I know it’s hard to get this to stick in your head, but I’ll never not worry about you, Lance, and I don’t mind it. Like I said, you’re my best friend. And of course we’re gonna talk about stupid things today, like Pidge’s cheeto rocket, and the story Shay told me about an escaped lizard at the zoo, but we’re also gonna talk about why you’ve got bags under your eyes that I can see through your concealer and the fact that you’ve been shutting everyone out in the past few weeks. Okay?”

Lance offers him a smile, reaching out to clasp hands with him, and gets pulled into a crushing, awkward hug with the bulk of the center console digging into his ribcage. “What would I do without you, buddy?”

“Neither of us would’ve survived past middle school if we didn’t have each other, bud. This goes both ways.”

The second smile comes a little easier. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go in; I’m dying for Sonny’s fries.”

“Oh, god, I know, right? I dreamed about them last night, Lance. I’ve been thinking about them all day,” Hunk says, and Lance laughs, climbing out of the car and falling into step with Hunk as they walk towards the restaurant entrance.

                “You too, huh? They’ve gotta have a secret ingredient. Something addictive that makes their fries taste two hundred times better than everyone else’s.”

                “I’ve been trying to get Sonny to tell me the recipe for years! He keeps telling me that they’re just normal fries, made the same as anywhere else, but he’s gotta be lying. There’s _something_ special about them.”

                “You’ll figure it out someday, bud,” Lance assures him, patting him on the back.

                The door jingles as they step inside, and a wave of nostalgia hits him with the smell of greasy fried food.

                Sonny’s is the same, down to the dents in the walls where customers got a bit too rowdy and the lopsided half-doors into the bar and even Sermy with his bandana and long white beard sitting on that cracked red stool.

                Sonny’s is the same, even if everything else has changed. Maybe he can find a bit of comfort in that.

                …………………………..

                “Keith and Shiro _know_ each other?” Hunk says, jerking sideways and spilling salt across the table. “Holy shit. Holy _shit._ That’s so weird, man.”

                “Yeah, my reaction was about the same. It really is a small world after all, huh?”

                Hunk points a fry at him threateningly. “Don’t you start.”

                Lance grins, then shrugs. “Seriously, though—I mean, first Coran and Allura, now Shiro and Keith? Oh, and Matt and Pidge, technically. Keith wasn’t ever really close to them, but he knew of them, because Matt’s been Shiro’s best friend since like, middle school. What next? Am I gonna find out that Cal and Lacy are actually long-lost twins?”

                Hunk pauses, gaze unfocused as he considers it. “They do look weirdly similar.”

                “Whatever, man. The universe is out to fucking get me.”

                Hunk’s gaze turns sympathetic. “Bet it sure seems like that right now, huh? You know it’ll get better.”

                His second statement is almost a question. Mostly because it’s something Lance has to be constantly reminded of.

                Lance shrugs. He doesn’t want to lie to his best friend. “It’s really starting to feel like more than a joke, though. You know? I don’t want to believe it, obviously, but with everything that’s happened in the past few years…”

                “It hasn’t all been bad, Lance,” Hunk reminds him, voice soft.

                “I know. I know that. Really, I do—it’s just. You know how hard it gets to remember the good when you’re stuck in the bad.”

                “I know,” Hunk agrees. He’s stopped eating his fries at this point, focused on Lance and their conversation. “Is it there? Has it gotten that far?”

                Lance realizes his mistake too late, and opens his mouth to take back everything he said, but it’s too late. It’s been said. It’s out there. Instead, he sighs.

                “Yeah. It’s there. Wish I could say it wasn’t, and I’ve been trying to fend it off, but…I think it’s the summer, you know? I love seeing my family, but at the same time, this all—it brings back memories. And not always the good ones. And Keith showing up and wanting a second chance? That came completely out of left field, man. Seeing him again felt like someone had come out of nowhere and slammed me into a wall.”

                “You could’ve called me,” Hunk says.

                Lance shakes his head. “I—it was past four in the morning, Hunk. I didn’t wanna wake you up.”

                “Lance,” Hunk says, fixing him with a look. “We’ve gone over this before. You could call me in the middle of the most important exam of my life and I’d drop everything if you needed me. I know you wouldn’t—because you worry about everyone else before yourself—but if you did, I’d be there. When you need someone, I’ll always be there. No regrets, no resentment.”

                “Okay. I’ll call you next time. Probably.”

                Hunk kicks him in the ankle for that, but smiles and goes back to eating while they talk. “What’s up with Keith, anyway? I know you aren’t sure where things are going, but have you even done much since you let him explain?”

                “He took me to a festival and I slept over at his apartment.”

                Hunk chokes on his drink, sweet tea dripping down his chin as he coughs, and Lance is half out of his seat to move over and pat him on the back when he’s waved off. After the coughing subsides and he’s taken a few more sips to soothe his throat, he croaks, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry, you did _what?”_

                “On his futon. He has a futon. He slept in the bed,” Lance clarifies, and grins wickedly at Hunk’s accusatory look.

                “When did things progress that much?” Hunk asks. “I didn’t think you’d even forgiven him yet. Have you guys kissed?”

                “What? No, Hunk. What part of ‘futon’ didn’t you get? We’re not dating.”

                “He took you to a festival,” Hunk points out.

                “And bought me cotton candy,” Lance adds.

                “That sounds a _lot_ like a date to me.”

                “Well, it wasn’t.”

                “And then you slept over at his—wait, apartment? When did he get an apartment? I thought you said he was staying in a motel?”

                “It’s one of Thelma’s month-by-months,” Lance explains.

                “Okay…” Hunk draws out. “Still, bud, that sounds a lot like he’s planning on staying for a while. Which is the opposite of what you said.”

                Lance wants to argue, but he can’t. “I know.”

                “And he took you to a festival, and bought you cotton candy, and let you stay the night at his apartment.”

                “I know.”

                “Anything else?” Hunk asks, carefully sipping at his sweet tea.

                “He drove me to work in the morning and bought me breakfast.”

                Hunk sets his cup down on the table with a distinctively loud _thunk._ “Okay, Lance—that’s gay as _fuck.”_

                “I know.” Lance hesitates, wondering if he should share the rest of it—but it’s Hunk, so of course he notices.

                He narrows his eyes, suspicious. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

                Lance sighs. “I played one of those shooter games to win him a stuffed hippo.”

                “You—what.”

                “He named it Red.”

                “Lance.”

                “And I took him to the beach. And he got a job at the garage. And the driving was maybe done on a motorcycle and I maybe liked the fact that I had to hold onto him the whole time—”

                “Lance—”

                “—and I don’t think I’ve forgiven him yet, but I think I want to? And I’m kind of still afraid that he’s gonna break my heart again, but I’m actually more afraid that I’m gonna break _his_ heart, because he has no one and I think he wants something real to come out of this and I haven’t been able to make a relationship work long term since Simon—”

                “ _Lance.”_

                Lance inhales, out of breath from his rant, and looks up. “Hunk.”

                “You gotta calm down, bud. Also, how long have you been keeping _that_ in?”

                “A while,” Lance murmurs, quiet but loud enough for Hunk to hear.

                He sighs, scratching at the back of his neck. “You’ve gotta stop doing this to yourself, man. I’m not the only one you can talk to, you know? Maybe you feel bad about bothering me, but Shiro and Matt and Pidge and literally everyone in the group chat would be willing to let you talk this out with them. We love you, man.”

                Lance leans forward, ignoring the way the plastic of the tabletop sticks to his forehead. “Can’t we just marry each other? Everything would be easier that way. We’d be a great married couple.”

                “We would,” Hunk agrees, and Lance can hear the smile in his voice. “We’ve still got the marriage pact in place.”

                “Hunk, buddy, I love you, but you can’t get my hopes up like this. You and I both know that you’re gonna marry Shay before we turn forty.”

                “Again, Lance, Shay and I aren’t dating.”

                “Yet.”

                “You’re impossible.”

                “You know I’m right.”

                “I know no such thing.”

                “I’ve seen the way you look at her, buddy. There’s no turning back from that.”

                “Hmm,” Hunk replies, tone distinctly doubtful. “How do you look at Keith?”

                Lance groans, pressing his face harder into the table. “I don’t _know,_ Hunk. I’m just—really fucking confused about everything.”

                “Well, do you like him?”

                Lance raises his head, propping his chin on folded arms. He thinks about the rush of concern every time Keith’s gaze turns sad, the sparks of electricity that shoot up his spine every time they so much as brush shoulders, the dreams that he used to have in high school that have started up all over again…

                “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I think maybe I never really stopped being in love with him.”

                Hunk blinks, and sits back in his seat. “Really?”

                Lance grimaces, and stares at the grains of salt in front of his nose. “The world feels quiet when I’m with him.”

                He thinks maybe he’ll have to explain more, because even he’s not sure that makes sense, but as always, Hunk knows him better than he knows himself.

                “Well,” Hunk says. He blinks a few more times, and then shrugs, eating the last of his fries, which are probably mostly cold by now. “It would explain a lot.”

                Lance smiles at him, genuinely, and then he sits up and throws a burnt fry across the table, laughing when it catches in his hair.

                “Sorry, bro. Mood was getting a bit low.”

                Hunk rolls his eyes, and then throws the fry right back, nailing Lance in the forehead before he has the chance to dodge.

                “We don’t have as much time left as I’d like,” Hunk grudgingly admits. “But I don’t have anything going on this Sunday. Mind if I come over and play video games?”

                “Honestly, Hunk, you don’t have to ask. You’ve been a member of the McClain family since third grade.”

                “Awesome. Mario Cart?”

                “Absolutely. Come over whenever, I’m not working. I’ll be there.”

                “I’ll text you,” Hunk promises. “Now, wanna hear the story about the escaped lizard?”

                Hunk always knows exactly what he needs. There’s never been a single exception to the rule. Lance loves him for it.

                Things will get better. He’ll get better.

                Everything’s gonna be fine. It has to be, when he’s got friends like Hunk to make sure of it.

                ………………………….

                Lance finds himself at the beach that afternoon, barely twenty minutes after Hunk dropped him off at his house before heading back to work.

                He almost feels guilty about it, because he knows he’s been blowing off his family a lot lately, but he also knows that they understand.

                And he could really use some peace right now.

                So, the beach. His beach, with it’s tiny strip of sand and ancient picnic table and rotting staircase.

                In an attempt to take Hunk’s parting advice—“Take care of yourself, Lance,”—he _doesn’t_ sprint the length of the beach until his legs give out. Instead, he lightly jogs a few laps until his muscles are warmed up, and then he strips off his shirt in the face of the hot sun, secure in the knowledge that he’s alone here, and starts doing the yoga routine that he and Hunk had put together with the help of their friend Riley, in the hopes that it would help lower his stress without pushing his body’s limits too far.

                It was helping him sleep, during school, until he dropped it when time wouldn’t allow it and forgot to pick it back up.

                Some of it is a bit difficult without someone there to spot him. That’s what he reasons to himself.

                Still, it feels good. The deep stretch that comes with most of the poses sinks into his muscles, pulls them tight and then leaves him feeling loose and relaxed. He can close his eyes and listen to the quiet rush of the tide against the beach, and the breeze rustling the trees, and feel the sun warming his skin and the sweat dripping down his spine, and it helps him feel grounded.

                The sand is gritty against his skin, and starts to stick when he starts to sweat in earnest, moving on to more difficult poses after he’s properly warmed up and stretched out. He doesn’t mind it, even when the bigger pieces scrape at his skin.

                He breathes. He thinks. He lets the peace soak into his thoughts, pulling memories and emotions one by one to the forefront of his mind to examine and acknowledge and fit together like pieces to a puzzle. He knows he’s better off this way—better off not repressing everything, shoving it into a dark corner where he can ignore it even when he knows it’s still hurting him.

                For the most part, he keeps his eyes closed, going by touch. The burning in his muscles keeps him grounded, even when his mind drifts.

                Keith, as always, is at the front of everything. Lance thinks about the way it feels to bury his fingers in his hair, the way that they’d smelled almost the same after the fair except Keith still had that underlying spice that Lance had never quite been able to identify—the way that Lance knows that because, for just a minute, he’d allowed himself to rest his face against the back of Keith’s shoulder as they drove to his apartment.

                He thinks about high school, when the nights he spent with Keith were the only times he ever felt…anything.

                Val had compared him to a ghost. It wasn’t an inaccurate comparison. He’d been a shadow of himself—a silhouette where once there’d been a full person.

                With Keith, maybe he’d still been in black and white, not quite fully there, but more present in his own life than he was with anyone else.

                Those nights…he’d thought about them, sometimes, even when he was trying his best to forget. They weren’t all bad. Most of them were pretty good.

                He still has dreams about the night they went to the pool, when the light had flickered over Keith’s pale skin in wavy lines and water had dripped from his hair and he’d tipped his head back against the edge of the pool and smiled, just a little, in the private, quiet way that Lance never saw him smile except when they were together.

                He always has to remind himself not to romanticize it. There were problems, of course. Keith had a habit of underestimating Lance, always surprised when he managed to do something above average or particularly impressive. And they’d fought, sometimes. Keith would come some nights with fire already in his eyes, nails cracked, knuckles bruised, and they’d hiss insults at each other, seeking to _hurt_ , to bleed.

                It wasn’t healthy. And maybe, a little, he regrets what they could’ve been if circumstances were different, but he can also admit to himself that at the time, they were better off going their separate ways. The timing wasn’t right. They both needed to grow, and maybe they could’ve done it together, but they might not have made it out the other side in one piece.

                They’d always known exactly what to say to hurt each other the most.

                Lance exhales, nearly a sigh, and bends down, finding a stable area of ground to place his hands and then slowly raising his legs up until he’s doing a handstand, feeling the sweat drip down his back towards his shoulders and down the length of his arms.

                He bends his legs at the knee, closing his eyes and carefully bending his elbows as he does a push up, careful to control his breathing.

                He knows how he feels about Keith. But he also knows that he hasn’t quite forgiven him—or maybe he has, but he still clings to those feelings, the bad memories, the sour taste of loss.

                And he’s collected more baggage than just that in the two years they’ve gone their own ways. Keith doesn’t know about any of it. He can probably guess some of it, since he’s seen Lance’s scars. But he doesn’t _know._

                The closest Lance has ever come to a relationship that’s more than something casual—a fling, a friends with benefits arrangement, a one night stand at a party—was with Simon. And it’d ended in a way that’d made it nearly impossible for him to even manage the casual sort of relationship. He hasn’t been able to trust anyone.

                He does another push up, grunting quietly. For just a moment, he lowers his feet, shifting most of his weight to them to give his arms a break, and then he goes right back into it.

                Pidge says he’s afraid of commitment. She’s probably right.

                If he gets right down to it, he’s afraid. Afraid of being left behind. Afraid of being abandoned. Afraid of not being enough, afraid of losing someone he loves. Afraid of loving someone more than they love him. Afraid of heartbreak.

                He’s afraid of a lot of things. He wishes he could be brave enough to face them.

                There’s a sound—gravel shifting underfoot, a cough—and then—

                “Lance?” a voice calls, tentative and hoarse and—confused?

                Lance loses his balance, his shaky arms folding on him, and he yelps as he lands hard on his back, the sound cutting off his lungs momentarily forget how to breathe.

                He wheezes, then groans, raising a hand up to his face to rub at his eyes. When he opens them again, squinting, Keith is hovering over him, expression stuck between amusement and concern.

                “Are you okay?” he asks. The effect is somewhat ruined by the half-grin pulling at his mouth as he says it.

                Lance glares at him. “Don’t you know not to surprise a guy doing handstand pushups?”

                “I’ve never been told that, actually,” Keith muses, and sticks out his hand.

                Lance takes it, allowing himself to be pulled into a sitting position. Keith sits next to him, turned slightly towards him, looking him over.

                “Do you often do handstand pushups shirtless on public beaches?” he asks. His cheeks are flushed—Lance hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he’s looking, he can see that Keith’s face and shoulders are red, as though he’s been running.

                Or as though he’s embarassed.

                Or maybe as though he’s been watching Lance do shirtless yoga. And liked it.

                Lance has to hide his own smile.

                “First of all, Keith—this barely counts as a public beach. No one else is ever here. Second of all, no. Usually I do hot, shirtless yoga in bed, preferably with other hot, shirtless people.”

                The blush, which had just started to fade to a light pink, darkens back to red again, even as Keith rolls his eyes, and Lance lets himself grin without hiding it this time.

                “This is actually a yoga routine I use to help myself sleep. Good for relaxation, you know. Helps tire me out a bit. And I can’t really do it at home, with little cousins running around and getting in the way. Gets dangerous.”

                “Sounds like it,” Keith replies.

                They’ve never really had a problem with silence. Sometimes, that’d be their whole night—sitting and staring at a stranger’s rooftop, smoking cigarettes and never saying a word.

                It’s talking that’s always been a problem for them.

                “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Lance admits. He wishes he’d left his shirt on—he always feels vulnerable with his scars visible, and now he feels exposed in a different way, telling Keith the truth without the buffer of pointless bickering and small talk. He wishes the world was simple enough that he could hide his uncertainty with a piece of clothing. “I don’t know what this is.”

                “Neither do I,” Keith says, voice quiet. Then he adds, “But I want it to be something.”

                That’s—a different answer than he was expecting. It feels like the right answer, though—like Keith found the words that Lance hadn’t managed to figure out for himself.

                He looks at Keith, this time, suddenly less afraid of how easy it is to forget about the rest of the world when they’re together.

                “I’m not good at something,” Lance tells him. “But I think that I want to try.”

                “Yeah?” Keith asks. The hope on his face makes something stutter in Lance’s chest.

                “Yeah,” Lance says. This time, he doesn’t push away the rawness of the feelings aching underneath his ribcage.

                ………………………………

                He spends Saturday night after work texting Keith. It starts a bit stilted—it’s glaringly obvious that Keith is unused to texting anyone, definitely not used to texting someone like Lance, who uses abbreviations every other word and rarely spells things correctly.

                They find a rhythm. And then they talk about everything.

                Keith tells Lance what he’s been doing in the years he’s been gone in more detail—Lance spends an hour teasing him after learning that Keith went to Roswell and was disappointed by how boring it was.

                He finds out from that conversation that Keith is still an avid collector of conspiracy theories and cryptid sightings—which immediately makes him think of Pidge and how incredibly well the two of them would get along.

                Too well, probably. They’d end up going on cryptid hunts at three in the morning and getting arrested for trespassing.

                Lance talks to him about college—about his friends and about his classes and about his favorite and least favorite professors. He tells him about how his major was undecided his freshman year and that he got all of his gen eds out of the way early and how he decided to try out for the swim team and ended up being one of the top picks.

                He confesses that he’s still unsure about his decided major—mostly because he’s not sure he’s good enough to make something out of himself.

                In return, Keith tells him that his time on the road has made him want a home more than he ever did, but that he’s afraid that now that he’s spent so much time traveling and being on his own, he isn’t capable of staying in one place for more than a few months, or of building a home.

                They talk until nearly four in the morning, and Lance falls asleep with his phone on his pillow next to his face.

                ………………………………..

                Lance wakes up Sunday morning disoriented and groggy—late morning sun is shining over his face from the window, and the last thing he remembers is talking to Keith.

                His phone is still on his pillow where he left it. It’s the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes, which are drawn to the blinking notification light in the upper left corner.

                He sits up, checking the time, and freezes in place, staring.

                _11am?_ he thinks, incredulous. He hasn’t slept in that late since the last time he got sick.

                And he doesn’t remember waking up, either.

                _Huh. I actually slept._

                He sets his phone down without looking at his notifications, deciding that he’s going to tackle what’s left of the morning first.

                Mostly, that involves a cold shower and his skin care routine, and he goes for his usual shorts and tank top combo before heading downstairs to find breakfast. Lunch? Maybe both.

                There’s a note on the fridge from his Mama, telling him that the twins had soccer practice and there were leftovers for him if he wants them.

                He’s just finishing up what he’s going to consider brunch—bacon and eggs with toast he made himself—when he hears a knock on the front door.

                _That’s probably Hunk,_ he decides, setting his dirty plate in the sink and heading for the front of the house. He doesn’t bother to check who’s there before opening the door.

                And then he finds himself standing there, blinking in surprise.

                “Hey, bud! Are you the only one home? I thought your mom was going to open the door,” Hunk greets, stepping forward to gather him in a warm hug.

                “El and Leo had soccer,” Lance replies, still staring in confusion over Hunk’s shoulder. “What are you guys doing here?”

                Pidge rolls her eyes and shoves past them into the house. “What kind of manners are those, McClain? That’s how you greet your best friends?”

                “Sorry, Pidge, I just—Shiro?”

                “Hi, Lance. How have you been doing?” Shiro asks, smiling warmly.

                “Pidge, you better not be putting a game in already,” Matt calls. “Lance gets first pick!”

                “Not if he doesn’t get his ass in here in the next minute, he doesn’t,” Pidge yells back.

                Shiro and Matt follow her into the house, Shiro shrugging apologetically, and then it’s Lance and Hunk standing in the doorway.

                Lance looks at him.

                Hunk softens, putting a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “I called them,” he explains. “We’ve all been worried about you, Lance. And we all want to be here for you.”

                “I don’t deserve you,” Lance says, and leads the way into the house. “C’mon, we better get in there before Pidge destroys the living room.”

                “Good plan,” Hunk replies, and soon enough Lance finds himself sandwiched in the middle of a huddle of his closest friends, yelling insults at each other as they play Mario Kart.

                It’s hard for the negative feelings to find him here, surrounded by the people that care about him.

                Even when he steps away to go to the bathroom, he doesn’t find himself suddenly wondering whether or not they’d all be better off without him like he usually does.

                Instead, he finds his phone, unlocking it and clicking on his messages.

                **kogayne:** you busy today?

                **lanceylance:** my friends are over. we’re playing mario kart

                **kogayne:** sounds fun.

                **lanceylance:** shiro’s here

                Keith’s response takes longer this time, and Lance starts to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t have told him.

**kogayne:** I thought he lived a couple hours away?

                **lanceylance:** he does. he, pidge, and matt took a trip down to see me

                **kogayne:** they’re good friends

                **lanceylance:** yeah

                **lanceylance:** come over?

                **kogayne:** are you sure?

                **lanceylance:** get u & ur mullet over here, kogane

                Maybe he should’ve asked the others first, but—as much as he loves them, something still felt like it was missing.

                He’s pretty sure it’s Keith.

                When he gets back downstairs, phone in hand, he’s immediately folded back into things. Pidge and Hunk are currently battling each other on rainbow road, because Pidge is a sadist, and Matt and Shiro are pressed against each other on one side of the couch, looking as gay and in love as always.

                “Hey, guys,” he starts, and the insults quiet, although Pidge and Hunk don’t take their eyes off of the screen. “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited Keith over to join us. He should be here in a few minutes.”

                Shiro smiles warmly. “That’s great, Lance! I’m glad you two managed to work things out.”

                “Have you actually been talking to him?” Hunk asks, and Lance nods.

                “We spent a lot of time last night texting. And I met him on the beach on Friday after our lunch—it wasn’t intentional, actually, we kind of ran into each other. But we talked. Really talked, not just danced around things like we have been. It was nice,” Lance tells them.

                Pidge makes a face. “Are you dating, then? Hunk said you slept with him.”

                “ _Hunk!”_ Lance screeches, and the yell in his ear makes Hunk flinch enough that his character on the screen falls off of the edge of the rainbow and dies.

                “I didn’t know it was a secret!” Hunk says, defensive, after glaring at Lance for causing him to lose the round.

                Lance presses a hand to his face in frustration, then shakes his head. “We didn’t _sleep together._ I stayed the night at his apartment, on his _couch,_ while he slept across the room in his bed. We haven’t even kissed.”

                “Boring,” Pidge replies in a sing-song voice.

                “I think it’s good that you’re taking it slow,” Shiro offers, and Lance smiles at him.

                “Thank you, Shiro. I just don’t want us to make the same mistakes we have in the past.”

                “I’m proud of you,” Shiro tells him, and Lance feels his cheeks flushing red.

                “Yeah, yeah. Save the mushy stuff for your boyfriend,” he mutters. In response, Matt swings his legs up onto the couch to stretch across Shiro’s lap so his feet press against Lance’s thigh.

                “There was a time that you would’ve saved the mushy stuff for me too,” he says, smirking, and Pidge throws a pillow at him.

                “You’re such a liar, Matt; there was never anything mushy about what we did,” Lance replies. “We went on a date twice in the entire time we were together.”

                “What do you call all the nights we spent over with each other?” Matt counters.

                Lance raises an eyebrow. “Booty calls?”

                Matt opens his mouth to argue and then seems to think better of it. “Okay, fair.”

                “I hate you both,” Pidge grumbles. “Every time. _Every time._ Do you have to bring it up every time? Why? We get it, you fucked. Stop _talking_ about it. I don’t wanna know!”

                “She’s jealous of our love,” Matt stage whispers, and Lance can’t help but laugh, even as Pidge turns to them, looking murderous and reaching for another pillow.

                Before they can continue provoking Pidge or get killed by her, Lance hears another knock on the door, this one much different than the first from Hunk, hesitant and quiet.

                “That’ll be Keith,” he says, and starts to get up, but Matt’s legs press him back into the couch. Hunk stands instead, as though they coordinated the whole thing, and offers him a mischevious smile before going to answer the door. “Hunk, what are you doing? Hunk!”

                “We’ve gotta make sure he doesn’t trip up Hunk’s gut, don’t we?” Pidge says. “We’re looking out for you, you overgrown noodle.”

                Once upon a time, Lance might’ve resented that, or panicked at the idea of his friends meeting his crush before they’d managed to figure out their relationship.

                Now, though…he doesn’t feel anything but loved as he looks around him.

                He hears the front door open. “Hi, you must be Keith! I don’t know if you remember me—I’m Hunk, Lance’s best friend.”

                Lance smiles. Everything’s gonna be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've read everyone's comments on this fic at least three times! they're a huge reason why this chapter got finished before the end of the semester. keep leaving them! i love hearing what you guys think, and learning about your favorite parts. kudos is great too!
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jostxnneil)


	7. finding shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST a head's up--the Spanish in this is probably pretty rough, because I don't speak Spanish. I'm starting to learn, but everything in this came from either my roommate, who's fluent, or the internet, which is very often wrong. sorry in advance for any mistakes.

                Lance remembers a day when he was younger—maybe eleven or twelve—that he’d spent at his grandparents house in the country.

                They didn’t live far away from the town Lance grew up in; maybe a 45 minute drive, and for him and his siblings, it was basically the equivalent of Disney World. They had a small farm, with chickens and horses and a couple of cows, and there was always something to explore.

                On this particular day, most of his siblings were inside. He was sitting on the front porch with his grandfather and his uncle and Val, drinking lemonade while they all drank coffee, and they talked quietly and watched a storm roll in.

                It was a nasty one—there was a tornado warning for their county, and it was raining hard, but the roof covered the porch and kept them dry.

                None of them were worried about a tornado. They could see the clouds swirling in the distance, but the farm was located at the bottom of a valley, and they hadn’t ever had trouble with tornadoes in the decades that they’d lived there, so they weren’t about to start worrying for no reason.

                Lance wasn’t worried, because his family wasn’t worried. They sat calmly in the face of the thunder and lightning and pouring rain, so he watched with them, and something in him was thrilled by being close enough to watch the danger pass him by.

                He wonders if, maybe, his life has become sort of like that day where he sat back and watched the storm roll in, except now he’s not in a valley, or staying dry under the roof. And there’s a chance the storm might not just pass him by.

                To be fair to himself—he thinks life is always a little bit like a storm. He’s certainly experienced enough to give some credit to that theory.

                The trick is finding shelter—finding safety—in the midst of it all.

                Sitting here, among his friends, catching up and playing games and laughing at stupid jokes…he’s sure he’ll outlast this storm.

                The question to ask, though—is Keith part of the shelter, or part of the storm?

                ………………………………….

                There are those who would call Lance fearless. They’ve seen the way he bares his teeth in the face of impossible odds, or heard his laughter when death brushes by him.

                The truth is, he’s learned that there’s much worse pain than the kind that can be inflicted physically. The truth is, maybe death doesn’t scare him, but living does.

                The truth is, Lance spends almost every waking moment of his life completely, wholly terrified, and no one knows.

                He sits awake at night, staring at his ceiling, following the patterns of cracks that he’s long since memorized, and thinks about the hesitant curl of Keith’s mouth and the way he ducks his head when he’s embarrassed and how his fingers are constantly tugging at his fingerless gloves—and he feels like he’s burning.

                Lance doesn’t have much of a frame of reference for what love is supposed to feel like. He would say he’s a little bit in love with all of his friends—and there was Keith, back at the very beginning of it all. But he’s spent the past two years convincing himself that the way he felt was nothing but infatuation—puppy love. He found someone he connected with for the first time, and something in him latched on, fully aware that it was a bad idea.

                There was Levi. He came closest, maybe. But then everything went up in flames, and Lance was left with the taste of ash crumbling on his tongue.

                He’s told all of his friends—the ones concerned about him, wondering why he never tried for anything other than a casual relationship—that he just didn’t think he was ready, and he didn’t want to hurt someone else by inevitably screwing it up.

                And that’s true, mostly. There’s just more to the story.

                Because he’s scared. He’s scared…that he won’t be enough. He’s scared that what happened with Levi will happen again. He’s scared he’ll fall hard and the other person won’t fall at all, and he’ll get his heart broken because he gave it away too easily. He’s scared that he’ll overcompensate for his fear of heartbreak to the point of keeping all of his emotions locked up behind an iron wall, making it impossible for anyone to get to know him.

                He’s scared of commitment—he’s scared of forever, because forever is a long time, and people change.

                But mostly, he’s scared that he’ll hurt someone else in his blind fear of love, and he would never be able to forgive himself if he did.

                His whole being aches for him to _try,_ though.

                He sighs and rolls out of bed, unbothered by the fact that it’s nowhere near morning, and shuffles down the hall to the kitchen for a glass of water.

                When he gets there, he finds that Pidge beat him to it, and is seated on a stool at the kitchen table, face lit by the glow of her laptop.

                “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asks, amused, and she wrinkles her nose at him without looking up.

                “Sleep is for the weak,” she replies.

                “We’ve had this conversation before,” Lance reminds her, opening the cabinet to grab a clean glass. “A _lack_ of sleep makes you weak, not the other way around.”

                She shrugs exaggeratedly, still squinting at her laptop, apparently determined to stay awake despite her hunched posture and the bags under her eyes.

                He watches her, leaning back against the kitchen counter and sipping at his water.

                After a few minutes, she seems to realize that he’s not going back to bed, and looks up with a confused frown.

                Before she can say anything, he asks, “Do you want some tea?”

                She closes her mouth. Apparently there’s something familiar to her in his face or his voice or his posture—she just nods. Doesn’t ask the question that’s hovering on the tip of her tongue.

                He sets down his glass and pulls the kettle from the stove to fill it with fresh water and set it up to boil, before pulling two mugs and a selection of non-caffeinated teas from a different cabinet than the one where he got his glass.

                “What are you feeling? Caramel? Chamomile? Peppermint? We’ve probably got anything you could name, but I’m not giving you anything with caffeine, so don’t ask.”

                Her voice is gravelly with tiredness. “Chamomile is fine.”               

                Lance snorts. “Of course you’d go for something as boring as chamomile. You’re a sixty-year-old woman trapped in the body of a college student.”

                Pidge fixes him with a half-hearted glare, but doesn’t bother to deny his teasing.

                He picks peppermint for himself, even though usually he’d go for something sweeter, like caramel, and he can feel more than see Pidge’s calculating gaze taking note of the decision.

                After the water is boiled and poured steaming on top of the tea bags, and the mugs set before each of them, and Lance is seated on a stool across from Pidge, she looks up and clears her throat.

                “Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, and her voice is so _soft._ It’s the voice she only uses rarely, afraid to be seen as weak or soft herself, and he almost cracks under the weight of it, because he knows what it _means._

                She’s worried for him. They all are—that pile of tangled, sweaty, sleeping people in the living room, probably drooling. They’re here for _him._

                “’S not like it’s anything new,” he mumbles, staring into his tea.

                He looks up after a few beats of silence, and finds her taking her first sip of tea, making a face at the taste.

                He gets the honey for her, sliding it across the table as he sits back down, and her eyes flicker up to his, grateful, before she busies herself with sweetening her cup.

                “Nightmares?” she says quietly, and he shakes his head, then thinks better of it halfway through and shrugs.               

                “They’ve made a reappearance or two. Not tonight.”

                She just looks at him. He wants to say something—the words to reassure her, to tell her not to worry, are right in the back of his throat.

                He can’t bring himself to say them. They’d be a lie, much as he hates to admit it, and Pidge has always been the most perceptive of all of them.

                “You can talk to me, you know,” she tells him. “To all of us. You’re always there for us when we need someone—it wouldn’t really be fair if we weren’t there for you right back, would it?”

                Lance shrugs. “It’s not about fairness. It’s just not a big deal—not worth bothering you guys about, when you already have so much you’re dealing with. I can handle this on my own.”

                “But you don’t have to,” Pidge says, and her eyes are big and warm and sincere behind the smudged lenses of her glasses.

                “I’m okay,” he whispers, more to himself than to her.

                “You’re not,” she says. “But you will be.”

                He watches the steam rise from his mug, breathing in the smell of peppermint, and letting the familiar wave of melancholy that always comes with it wash over him like the tide coming in.

                “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admits, barely loud enough for Pidge to hear.

                “Ups and downs?” she says, and he feels himself smiling faintly.

                “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Ups and downs.”

                “That bastard rollercoaster,” she says, and he snorts, covering his mouth to avoid laughing louder and waking the people sleeping in the other room.

                His smile fades faster than he’d like it to, and maybe it’s the tea, but maybe it’s just him.

                “I swear, every time I think I’ve found solid ground, a wave comes along to knock me down. And right now, I’m swimming, but I’m scared that soon it’s gonna be like it was two years ago all over again, and it’ll take everything I have just to keep from drowning.”

                Pidge is quiet for awhile—thinking about what to say, he knows. When they have conversations like these, they tend to last a while, because they take their time.

                She stands, after a bit, picking up her mug and walking around to take the stool next to Lance instead of across from him.

                “You aren’t alone anymore, Lance,” she whispers, and wraps her hand around his upper arm.

                He slumps, breath gusting out of him in a loud exhale, and leans against her, resting his head on top of hers so her hair tickles his cheek. “I know…I know I could ask for help, and you’d all give it gladly. But I haven’t quite figured out the first step yet. The asking part.”

                “The feeling vulnerable thing?” Pidge asks, and he hesitates before shrugging and nodding at the same time.

                “A bit. But it’s also that…I’ve been the shoulder to cry on or the strong one to lean on for so many people in so many situations that I feel like if I admit I need help sometimes too, everyone will suddenly realize that I’m a fake and they shouldn’t be listening to me, or—something. I don’t know how to explain it. You know when you’re a kid, and your parents are always strong and brave around you because they don’t want you to be scared? And the first time you see your mom or dad cry, it feels like the world is ending, just a bit, because you realize that they’re not as unbreakable as you thought they were?”

                Pidge tilts her head, dislodging Lance, and blinks up at him. “I think what you’re missing here is that, even though for a moment it felt like the world was tilting off its axis, you don’t suddenly see your parents as weak. You just see them as human.”

                Lance opens his mouth to argue with that, but—he doesn’t actually have anything to counter it with.

                “You tell everyone who’ll listen to you that your mom is the strongest woman you’ve ever known. Just because she cries when she’s upset or worried, or because she needs help sometimes, whatever way that is, doesn’t mean she isn’t strong. No one can walk this world alone, Lance. Not for long. Not forever. That doesn’t make you weak.”

                “But what if—” Lance starts, and stops. He takes a breath, staring at his cup of peppermint tea, as full of memories as any photo album, and starts again. “What if I was never strong to begin with? What if it was all an act, and somehow I got everyone to believe me, and asking for help means that they’re going to realize the truth?”

                “Lance,” Pidge scolds softly, and flicks his cheek. “That’s _stupid._ I know you—I know that you’ve been through some shit, and yet you’re still here, against all the odds. And more than that, I know that you always stir your coffee counterclockwise and that you have to have at least three pillows to sleep with and that you broke a window with a baseball once and lied about it because you thought you wouldn’t be forgiven.

                “I know that you’re scared. That you look ahead at the future you never thought you’d have, and it terrifies you. That you’re afraid of hurting the people you love, and that you’re afraid of letting anyone in romantically because it would give them the power to hurt _you._ I know that you still have a habit of repressing your emotions because expressing them hasn’t gone well for you in the past, and because you want everyone to see you as some infallible god of a friend who never needs help but can always give help.

                “I know that you care about Keith. I know that he hurt you, a lot, back when you were kids, and you’re scared he’ll hurt you again, but more than that, you’re scared you’ll hurt _him._ I know that you feel so much sometimes that it hurts, and every once in a while you think it might be easier if you went back to the zombie of apathy you were in high school. Honestly, Lance—you’re scared of _feeling,_ because you don’t know what to do with it. Your heart bleeds for the whole world, and you put everyone else above yourself because you’d rather be hurt than see them hurt, because to you, that’s worse.”

                Lance stares at a scratch on the counter. It’s deep, more of a gouge than a scratch, really, and vaguely shaped like the letter L.

                “You take care of everyone, Lance. Who takes care of you?”

                He opens his mouth to say something, but instead of words, what comes out is a shaky laugh. He hunches forward, wrapping his hands around his warm mug, and pretends that there aren’t tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

                “You do know me,” he mumbles. “When did that happen?”

                “You ask that as though our entire friend group doesn’t half act as though we share a brain sometimes. You built what we are, Lance, from the ground up—don’t think you’ve escaped notice. You’re not in the background, you’re not an afterthought, and you’re not less important than the rest of us. We love you. We know you.”

                He exhales a shuddering breath through his nose, and leans forward enough for his forehead to rest against his arm. “I keep forgetting.”

                “Well, don’t,” Pidge says, and he laughs again, a watery sound that makes it far too clear that he’s starting to fall apart.

                She stands up, and he thinks maybe that’s her way of ending the conversation, but then she goes over to her laptop and starts clicking and typing, owl eyes staring unblinkingly at the screen.

                After a handful of heartbeats, music starts to play, quiet and tinny from the speakers of her laptop, and she comes back over to his side of the table, holding out her hand.

                He stares at her.

                She rolls her eyes. “C’mon, Lance, I know this is as good a way as any to get you to relax. I’m offering. Don’t make me wake up the others.”

                Lance shakes his head hurriedly, setting his mug back down and taking her hand—she pulls him to his feet with surprising strength, and then they’re shuffling around the tile floor in some semblance of a dance that might be mimicking a waltz.

                _They’re knocking now upon your door_

_They measure the room, they know the score_

_They’re mopping up the butcher’s floor_

_Of your broken little hearts_

_Oh, children…_

Pidge takes the lead, and Lance lets her, even though he has to duck when she spins him, and then they find themselves huddles together and rocking back and forth, and his hand is wrapped in the back of her shirt with a white-knuckled, shaking grip, and he’s trying to pretend that he’s not crying into her shoulder, but she’s rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder blade even as they continue their awkward circle around the kitchen, and the music plays on.

                _Hey little train we’re jumping on_

_The train that goes to the Kingdom_

_We’re happy, Ma, we’re having fun_

_And the train, it ain’t even left the station…_

“You’re allowed to need help, Lance,” Pidge murmurs in his ear. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

                He would answer—he would argue that he doesn’t _feel_ strong, that he’s never felt strong, but he’s too afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll start sobbing instead of quietly shaking apart in her arms, and he doesn’t want that.

                “Come here,” she tells him, and twists her fingers into his, leading him behind her as she closes her laptop, cutting off the music at the end of the song, and pulls him into the living room, where the rest of their friends are still sleeping peacefully—Matt and Shiro on either end of the couch, Hunk on the floor in a nest of pillows and blankets and sleeping bags. There’s a clear gap where Pidge was laying before she left.

                Lance hadn’t joined them earlier, because he hadn’t wanted to make the sleeping room they had even more cramped than it already was. He’d offered his bed, but no one would take him up on it.

                Pidge makes him lay down next to Hunk, who stirs as they climb into the middle of it all and blinks blearily at them, opening his mouth to ask what’s going on before he sees something on their faces that makes him fall quiet and open his arms, instead.

                Lance crawls into them gratefully, and Pidge curls around him on his other side, and they hold him together as he cries and tries his best to fall to pieces.

                This day—this night—has been surprise after surprise. He’s not sure what woke him up more—their arrival at his door, or Pidge initiating a dance with him even though he usually has to beg and whine to convince her to dance, and half the time she still doesn’t do it.

                She’s usually the one that tells him when he’s being stupid, not the one that quietly reminds him he’s not alone, and that he has people who love him and have proven that by taking the time to get to know him—but here she is, somehow giving him exactly what he didn’t know he needed.

                He owes her, like, an entire truckload of cheese puffs.

                Maybe he cries himself out before he falls asleep, or maybe the two things happen at the same time, but somehow between one breath and another, he’s warm and drowsy and _safe_ enough to slip into sleep.

                He knows he won’t be alone in the morning. That’s all it takes.

                ……………………………………………..

                When Lance blinks his eyes open the next morning, he yelps in surprise at the sight of Pidge’s face hovering right above him.

                She glares. “Hunk won’t feed me until you’re awake. Are you awake?”

                “Yes,” Lance replies, “but at what _cost_?”

                Pidge rolls her eyes, leaning back on her heels. Her hair is a frizzy halo of tangles. “If that’s all it takes to scare you, it’s no wonder you refused to come with us to the haunted house last year.”

                “I’m pretty sure anyone would have half a heart attack if the first thing they saw when they woke up was a gremlin,” Lance argues, and grins when Pidge throws a pillow at him.

                “Are you joining us for breakfast or not?” Pidge asks. “Hunk nearly got in a fistfight with your mother over who was going to cook this morning.”

                Lance winces, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His face feels sticky and gross from all the crying he did. “How did that go?”

                “You should’ve seen it—we all know that your mother is a force to be reckoned with, so I figured Hunk would chicken out the second she gave him that _look_ , but he argued with her until there was only an hour until the twins had to be at soccer practice and convinced her to let him cook so that she had time to get ready. It was _hilarious;_ Maria wanted to argue so badly but she just didn’t have the time. Now Hunk’s standing by the stove making pancakes and looking smugger than the time he beat you in a pumpfidence dance contest and you spent three days sulking.”

                “I _sprained_ my _ankle,_ ” Lance says, and she waves a hand dismissively.

                “Semantics,” she replies breezily, and offers a cheeky grin before holding out a hand to help him to his feet.

                The kitchen is a mess. He was expecting that; it always is when his family actually takes the time to eat an actual breakfast. It’s a bit different with his friends, but he could almost argue that it’s worse.

                His Mama is obviously long gone with the kids for soccer practice, and his dad is at work, and that just leaves them.

                They’re all gathered around the kitchen table, which is completely covered with plates of food—pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage, eggs, pretty much every breakfast food under the sun. Matt and Shiro are arguing about pancakes versus waffles.

                “Pancakes are _obviously_ better,” Matt is saying, even though Lance knows for a fact that he prefers waffles.

                “No they’re not!” Shiro replies, slamming a bottle of maple syrup down on the table with far more force than necessary. “Waffles have squares for you to pour the syrup into so it doesn’t just drip off— _and_ the edges get a little bit crispier, so they’re not just like eating fluff, like with pancakes.”

                “You can’t stack them the way you can with pancakes,” Hunk offers, and Shiro shoots him a dirty look.

                “You can if you try hard enough,” he says, and Lance sees Matt hiding a grin behind his hand.

                “Mattie, why are you teasing your fiance? I know you prefer waffles; we had an extensive argument about it after a more creative date night involving maple syrup and whipped cream,” Lance interjects, and Pidge shrieks, clapping her hands over her ears.

                “I don’t want to _know,_ ” she wails, and kicks him in the shin before taking a seat at the table as far away from her brother as she can get.

                Shiro looks immediately towards his fiance, sporting an accusatory glare. “Matt? Please tell me we’re not having a completely useless argument.”               

                Matt tries and fails to keep himself from grinning, and finally shrugs. “What can I say? I like arguing with you. You get this line between your eyebrows and pout your lips when someone says something you disagree with but don’t have anything you can say to change their mind. It’s cute.”

                “ _Matt,_ ” Shiro scolds, and Matt laughs, leaning forward to loop his arm around Shiro and plant a sticky kiss on his cheek.

                “Love you, babe,” he says, and Shiro flips him off.

                Lance walks over to Hunk and leans against him, propping his chin on Hunk’s shoulder—Hunk reaches back to absentmindedly pat his hair, but otherwise remains focused on the pancakes he’s still making.

                “Did you sleep alright, Lance?” Shiro asks, apparently having decided to move past Matt’s betrayal.

                “Fine,” Lance replies, and leaves Hunk at the stove to sit at the table and eat some breakfast before Pidge takes all the bacon.

                “Did I miss Keith leaving this morning?”

                “Nah, he left last night a little bit after you passed out. He had an early shift this morning. Didn’t want to wake you guys up when he left.”

                “That was considerate of him,” Shiro comments, and Lance looks at Matt and mouths ‘ _Considerate?’_

                Matt snorts and starts choking on his pancake, to the point that Shiro turns to him with an alarmed look on his face and starts slapping him on the back.

                “Matt?” he asks, and Matt waves a hand at him, still wheezing, face red.

                “I’m okay,” he manages, and wipes away the tears that escaped from his eyes. “Went down the wrong pipe, is all.”

                Shiro narrows his eyes suspiciously, but doesn’t question it. He offers Matt a strawberry—Matt eats it right from his fingers.

                “You guys are gross,” Pidge complains, spraying whipped cream from the can directly into her mouth.

                “We’re all sharing that, you know,” Hunk says, without turning around from the stove. “Germs.”

                “Wow, what’s that flying out the window? It’s the last fuck I don’t give,” Pidge replies, and Matt throws a grape at her, hitting her directly in the cheek.

                “Oh, no,” Lance says immediately, recognizing the murderous look on Pidge’s face. “We’re not having a food fight in my Mama’s kitchen. She’ll kill me, and then she’ll raise me from the dead to make me clean up the mess and then she’ll kill me _again.”_

                Pidge subsides with a sulky glare. “Fine.” But it doesn’t stop her from locking eyes with Shiro and offering him the can of whipped cream under the table with a meaningful look towards Matt.

                Matt ends up with whipped cream all over his face and in his hair, and Pidge ends up laughing herself onto the floor, where she stays, red-faced and grinning up at the rest of them.

                Lance sneaks his phone out of his pocket to take a picture, and sends it to Keith.

                **lanceylance:** you’re missing out on some quality fun

                **kogayne:** looks like I am

                **kogayne:** guess we’ll just have to have another sleepover when I can stay the night

                **lanceylance:** guess we will

                “Who’re you texting, Lance?” Hunk asks, immediately drawing the attention of everyone else at the table. His innocent expression doesn’t fool Lance one bit.

                “Keith,” Lance says, deciding to answer honestly. “Figured I should let him know exactly what he’s missing out on.”

                Shiro and Matt exchange a knowing look, and suddenly Lance wants to start a food fight just to avoid the conversation he knows is coming, consequences be damned.

                “You have work today too, don’t you, Lance?” Pidge asks, interrupting Shiro and Matt before they can start. Lance offers her a grateful smile.

                “Yeah, I have a half shift from 3 to 8. Nothing super difficult; although it is a Monday, so I’ll probably have plenty to keep me busy.”

                “We should probably get going around the time you leave for work if we want to be back in Altea at a decent time,” Shiro comments, and Lance feels a pang of sadness echo through him at the reminder.

                “Probably,” he mumbles, and stares down at his pancakes.

                Hunk chooses that moment to finally sit down, piling pancakes and waffles onto a plate for himself and then leaning back in his seat to glance between the four of them already seated.

                “I was thinking we should do something for the 4th of July,” he says, voice casual. “Lance’s family usually keeps things pretty lowkey, so they won’t mind if he ducks out for a year, and the rest of you don’t really have anyone but each other to celebrate with this year, right?”

                Pidge shrugs. “I wasn’t really planning on doing much without my parents to plan it this year, so. Yeah.”

                Lance taps his fork against the edge of his plate. “My grandparents are going to be out of town for that week. They’re going on vacation in Tennessee.”

                “The McClains?” Hunk asks, surprised, and Lance nods.

                “I offered to housesit for the week already—well, me and Val. We split up the week so neither of us has to take too much time off of work. Small as the farm is, it’s not really a part-time sort of thing. But I got the half of the week with the 4th. We could do something there for the weekend,” he suggests, and Shiro nods thoughtfully.

                “That could work. Your grandparents won’t mind?” he asks.

                “So long as we don’t trash the place, no. They’re pretty chill, as far as grandparents go. And since it’s in the middle of nowhere, we can set off our own fireworks instead of trying to find a place to go see some.”

                “I wouldn’t mind taking a weekend out of town,” Shiro admits. “And it wouldn’t have to be anything huge. Just us and a few others.”

                “You could invite Keith,” Matt suggests.

                Lance isn’t sure he’s capable of looking that far into their future right now. Everything still feels impossibly fragile.

                But it’s a good idea.

                “Maybe,” he murmurs. “So we’re up for it? 4th of July at the McClain farm?”

                “Do they have wifi?” Pidge asks, and Lance rolls his eyes.

                “Yes, Pidgeon, they have wifi. They’re not hermits.”

                “Sounds good to me, then,” she replies. “I’ll make sure Matt buys the good booze.”

                Lance smiles at her. At all of them. “Sounds like a plan.”

                Breakfast dissolves into chaos after that, more or less. Matt and Pidge start arguing over the definition of ‘good booze’ with Shiro occasionally offering terrible opinions that ally them against him, even just for a moment.

                It feels good. It feels like family. Lance has never been lacking when it comes to family—but he’d never found people he really matched with like he does with the friends he has now. They know him better than he knows himself, and they don’t hesitate to remind him of that when he needs it.

                He’s full of love for them—this kind of love, at least, he knows. He understands.

                Maybe he can come to understand other types of love as well, with a bit of help.

                ………………………………………..

                Friday night finds Keith crawling into the passenger seat of Lance’s car after work, leaving his motorcycle safely stowed in a spare area of the garage.

                “There’s a showing at the drive-in tonight,” he says, buckling his seatbelt. “I haven’t heard of the movie, but I’m not really in the loop for those sorts of things anyway. Do you want to go?”

                “I haven’t been to the drive-in since…two years ago? A year and a half? It’s been a while,” Lance replies, considering it.

                He takes a moment to focus on driving—reversing out of the parking space, pulling out to the lot, checking for cops as he coasts down the hill that no one goes the speed limit on.

                “My bike isn’t really ideal for a drive-in, mostly because if you go there and just sit on a picnic blanket, you won’t be able to see the movie screen over the tops of the cars in front of you. But I thought it might be fun. And the showing isn’t too late, so we won’t be out past midnight, unless you want to do something afterwards,” Keith continues, and Lance hides a fond smile at his nervous rambling.

                “I’ll go,” Lance says, cutting him off. Keith stops, finally looking up at him.

                “Really?” he asks.

                “Yes, really,” Lance replies, rolling his eyes. “What, did you think I was gonna say no? I love the drive-in. It sounds like fun. We can take my car—or, maybe Dad will let me take the pickup for the night. We can take a bunch of blankets and pillows with us and it’ll be almost like camping.”

                Keith smiles. Lance can feel it even with his eyes fixed on the road through the windshield. “That sounds awesome.”

                “It is,” Lance confirms. “I did it with Val and Toni and some of their friends a few years ago; we were practically drowning in pillows, and all the couples with their tiny ass cars and convertibles were green with envy.”

                He pulls onto his road, and then into his driveway. His fingers brush Keith’s hand when he goes for the gearshift to put the car in park. He pretends not to notice, but he hesitates before opening the door, looking at Keith instead.

                “Of course, we can take the car, if you’d rather,” he offers. “The hood can get kind of uncomfortable, but it is sort of nice.”

                Keith shrugs, and Lance’s eyes fixate on the hair sticking to the side of his flushed face. “It sounds like you know best, with this sort of thing. And the pickup truck thing sounds nice. More comfortable, anyway.”

                Lance smiles. “Guess it’s settled, then.”

                “Guess so,” Keith murmurs, and Lance has to practically scramble for the door when he sees the look in Keith’s eyes.

                It’s too close to everything he’s terrified of.

                ……………………………….

                His dad seems _far_ too happy to let Lance take the truck for the night—he has a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with the fact that Lance is going on an actual date, and being open about it, with a boy that he’s introduced to his family, for the first time since Levi.

                He _wants_ to be irritated by it, but he can’t quite manage it.

                They left early enough to ensure a good spot, and just manage to get one of the best places in the middle, near enough to the screen for a good view but far enough away that they won’t get dizzy from it.

                It’s nearly a half hour before the movie starts, but Lance is okay with that. It gives them time to set up all the pillows and blankets in the back, and for Keith to go on a snack run to the concession stand.

                He’d reluctantly taken the money Lance had given him—but he paid when they went to the festival, and had apparently seen some sense in the argument that they should take turns.

                When he comes back, Lance has made them what is practically a nest in the back of the truck, complete with sleeping bags along the side and several layers of comforters to keep the ridges from digging into their backs.

                “Nice,” Keith says appreciatively, handing Lance his change and the snacks—including popcorn, of course—before climbing up next to him.

                “Better than the hood of a car, yeah?” Lance says, flashing a grin, and Keith nods as he takes in their movie-watching setup, hand brushing the back of Lance’s shoulder.

                “Definitely,” he replies, and before Lance can decide whether or not the touch on his shoulder is accidental, Keith steps away to collapse into the comfort of the cushioned truck bed, groaning in satisfaction.

                Lance busies himself arranging the popcorn and snacks along the side of the truck—within reach, but not where it can easily be knocked over or spilled by a stray hand or elbow.

                And then he settles in next to Keith.

                He’s not sure how close he’s willing to get, at first—but then he can _feel_ the distance between them like it’s something physical, and resigns himself to sitting bare inches apart, close enough that their shoulders brush whenever they twist towards each other.

                “Okay, just so you know, I haven’t slept properly in, like, three days, so if I fall asleep on you, _please_ don’t take it personally,” Lance says, hoping to distract himself from their closeness and the encroaching movie, which he knows is the perfect opportunity for Keith to try and hold his hand or something similar—not that he’d necessarily _object,_ but. Well. He’s a mess.

Keith looks at him, curious. “Do you drool?”

“Like a baby,” Lance admits, wishing he could deny it.

Keith shrugs. “I never really liked this shirt, anyway.”

And that—god, fuck him. It makes Lance want to kiss him.

The previews start to play, and the lights lining the lot are dimmed in anticipation. The movie is one that Lance vaguely remembers Matt talking about—one of the latest Marvel movies. He hasn’t really been keeping up with them, but they’re all mostly the same anyway. Superheroes, lots of fight scenes, probably someone dies or almost dies.

Not that he doesn’t enjoy them. They’re usually pretty good movies. Just not always memorable.

Keith starts whispering questions to him nearly as soon as it begins—apparently he’s been even worse than Lance at keeping up with the Marvel movies, because he’s entirely clueless about what’s going on.

Lance isn’t an expert, but he can answer most of Keith’s questions—that is, until they start to dip into the realm of ‘How did he do that?’ and ‘Wait, I thought he was just a regular guy? How is he that strong?’

As annoying as he might have found the questions had they come from his siblings or even some of his friends, he can’t bring himself to mind them from Keith.

True to his word, maybe halfway through the movie, he finds himself starting to drift off, despite his best efforts to stay awake.

He tries his best to at least keep his head off of Keith’s shoulder, unwilling to drool all over his shirt despite him saying that he didn’t care, with mild success.

“Wait, Lance, that’s not even scientifically—Lance?” Keith whispers, and Lance thinks he maybe manages a soft hum in response.

Or maybe not.

Keith huffs a quiet laugh, and then breathes a soft, fond sigh before Lance suddenly finds himself leaning against Keith—head in the crook of Keith’s neck, with Keith’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him from falling.

It wakes him up more than he was, at first—he doesn’t open his eyes, but his breath stutters for a moment before he adjusts to the new arrangement.

                Where he touches Keith, he feels like he’s burning.

                On any other date, with any other person, he never would’ve been able to all asleep like this. But almost before he realizes it, without any sort of permission from his brain, he starts to drift again, lazily falling in and out of consciousness as the movie plays on.

                At some point, Keith starts running his fingers through Lance’s hair, and Lance wonders when he found it in him to trust Keith.

                He hasn’t been able to trust anyone new since Levi. He’s tried, but—it hasn’t been easy going. Not that it’s Levi’s fault. More a consequence of their shared experiences.

                For the longest time afterwards, he’d barely been able to let _anyone_ touch him, even his friends. Even his Mama.

                It’d nearly broken her heart.

                And now here he is, letting himself drift off to sleep in the arms of a boy he once thought he’d hate forever.

                Maybe he’s gotten better. Maybe he’s being stupid. Either way…

                He decides he likes the way Keith’s arm feels around his shoulders.

                ………………………..

                “Lance. Hey—Lance, the movie’s over. I’d carry you if I thought I could lift you out of the truck bed without making both of us fall,” a voice says, pulling Lance out of sleep.

                He blinks tiredly, and finds his cheek still pressed against Keith’s shoulder, and—yup, that’s definitely drool.

                He’d be embarrassed, but he _did_ warn Keith.

                He starts to sit up, and sways, still dazed and a little more than half asleep.

                “Whoa, careful—here, c’mon, I’ll help you down. Do you mind if I drive us home?” Keith asks, and Lance shakes his head automatically in response to the question.

                He lets Keith help him to his feet, and then to the end of the truck bed, and then onto the ground.

                And then into the cab of the truck, where Keith takes care to help settle him comfortably into the seat before shutting the door.

                Lance blinks at the view outside the window—they’re one of the stragglers, with only a handful of others left still packing up, mostly bigger families or people who’d brought a setup similar to his and Keith’s.

                Speaking of—he should be helping Keith clean up all their blankets.

                He cranes his neck, turning around to look out the rear window, just in time for Keith to open the driver’s side door, arms full of neatly folded blankets and pillows that he sets in the backseat before climbing in himself.

                “You buckled?” he asks, and Lance moves to do so, still mostly lost in the haze of sleep.

                Once he’s managed to fasten the seatbelt, he slumps onto his side, tucking his feet up under him and resting on the middle seat. Out of habit, he curls up enough so that he isn’t touching Keith.

                The rumble of the truck is familiar—soothing. It lulls him right back into that in-between place of sleep, where he can still vaguely hear and sense the world around him, but it’s as though he’s dreaming it.

                And it’s not long from there that he finds himself relaxing enough to stretch out further in the seat, until his hair is just barely brushing Keith’s thigh.

                He feels the truck slow underneath them as Keith shifts in his seat—and then his head is being lifted, and rested on top of one of the pillows from the backseat.

                He melts into it, until his head is halfway on the pillow, halfway on to of Keith’s thigh, and he half expects, even mostly asleep, that Keith will wake him up or push him away.

                But he doesn’t. His fingers just start to card through Lance’s hair the same way as earlier, tracing gentle circles on Lance’s scalp.

                He trusts Keith. He’s not sure when that happened—or why, considering how little time has passed since he decided to give Keith a second chance.

                But he can’t say he minds it. He can’t say it doesn’t feel good to have found a person that feels safe before anything else.

                Part of him feels bad for falling asleep in the middle of their date and forcing Keith to drive them both home.

                But mostly he doesn’t care. Mostly he feels calm, and peaceful, and more relaxed than he’s managed to be in what feels like forever.

                Keith starts to hum softly along with the radio, still running his fingers through Lance’s hair, and Lance quickly finds himself spending more time in the inky grasp of sleep rather than the odd in-between of mostly asleep but not quite, where he hears everything as though from a great distance.

                And then they’re home. And then Keith is carefully sliding out of the seat and crossing over to the other side, and pulling Lance into his arms so his head rests against his chest.

                Lance is drooling on his shirt again, he’s sure. But he’s too tired to try and protest. Too tired to do anything but listen, and remember.

                It feels like barely a second, and then they’re in Lance’s room, and Keith is setting Lance on his bed and taking his shoes off of his feet and he just wants to let himself drop off entirely but he chooses that moment to realize that he was supposed to drive Keith back to the garage after the movie so he could go home on his bike, and he blinks heavy eyes halfway open just in time to reach out and grab Keith’s sleeve as he starts to turn away.

                “Lance?” Keith asks, and Lance just _knows_ that he’d rather walk home at midnight, in the dark, four miles across town rather than wake him up when he knows Lance has trouble sleeping.

                He decides that maybe he’s not so scared of falling in love after all, because if he has to—well, at least it’s Keith.

                “Hey,” he manages, voice rough and gravelly from the exhaustion trying to pull him back into sleep. “Stay?”

                He’s not sure if Keith will listen. He’s not sure if Keith will _want_ to listen, and he’s suspiciously still for long enough that Lance wouldn’t be surprised if he left and walked home anyway, but then he’s sighing.

                “Okay,” he whispers, and uses his toes to kick off his own shoes before climbing into the bed next to Lance.

                And Lance falls asleep as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

                ………………………………………..

                When Lance wakes up, he’s warm, the kind of drowsy that comes with Sunday mornings and breakfast in bed, and incredibly, impossibly happy.

                He opens his eyes, and Keith is there, already awake, watching him with a lazy, contented expression on his face.

                There’s no sign of the fear that had once driven him out of Lance’s window, leaving Lance to wake up feeling cold and abandoned. Just warmth.

                “Today’s a good day,” Lance says, and Keith smiles, just a little, terribly fond.

                “You haven’t even gotten out of bed yet,” he teases, but Lance just shrugs—they’re the sort of close that means any movement moves them both, and Keith’s shoulders move with Lance’s shrug.

                “Doesn’t matter,” he says, leaning forward so that his forehead rests against Keith’s, “it’s still a good day.”

                “Well,” Keith starts, “how about we get up and do our best to make it a _great_ day?”

                “Five more minutes, Mom,” Lance murmurs, and opens his eyes to look at Keith with a smile when he feels the other man start laughing.

                Keith is beautiful when he laughs. There are crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his lips curl into a crooked grin that makes Lance want to laugh with him.

                “Today is my favorite kind of day,” Lance declares, and Keith raises an eyebrow at him.

                “Saturday?”

                “No, you dork—just. Today’s that kind of day where it feels like nothing can drag me down. Like the world isn’t against me, for once. You know?”

                Keith studies his face, and reaches up to run his thumb along the edge of Lance’s  jaw.

                “Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

                Lance wishes they could lay in bed forever, but he’s still in his clothes from the night before, and he feels stale and just a bit gross.

                He sends Keith down the hall to the second of three bathrooms, so that he doesn’t have to wait for Lance to finish his shower before he can take one himself, and then he washes off the grime of the night, rinsing the smell of wind and popcorn and Keith’s cologne out of his hair.

                El and Leo don’t even bat an eye when Keith follows him into the kitchen, although Gavin drops his spoon into his cereal bowl and splashes milk onto the table.

                Mariposa isn’t anywhere to be found, and neither is his mom, but his Dad is sitting at the end of the table reading the newspaper and drinking his morning coffee.

                “Morning, Dad,” Lance says, and pulls two mugs down from the cabinet, passing one to Keith.

                “Morning,” his dad replies, voice still gruff and gravelly from sleep. He’s in pajama pants and an old gray tshirt. He doesn’t look up from the paper.

                “Do you want creamer in your coffee, Keith? Milk? Or just black,” Lance asks, opening the fridge.

                “Black is fine,” Keith replies, and Lance turns to him.

                “’Fine’ isn’t ‘good.’ Do you really like the taste of black coffee? Because if you do, I think maybe you need your head scanned,” Lance tells him.

                Keith shoots a glance towards Lance’s dad, who still hasn’t looked up.

                “The caramel is good,” Lance’s dad says to his paper. He picks up his coffee and takes another sip, and when he sets it down, it’s on the side where they can see it, so that the off-beige color of it is clearly visible.

                His dad can’t stand coffee without creamer. He’s always had a sweet tooth.

                “See, Keith? Be a man. Drink your coffee the way you want it,” Lance says, teasingly. Keith smiles at him, shaking his head and letting out a quiet huff of a laugh.

                “Fine,” he says. “I prefer creamer. Do you have vanilla?”

                Lance hands the bottle to him in answer, and grabs the caramel for himself.

                “What are you feeling for breakfast? Cereal? Eggs? Toast? We’ve got pretty much anything. Three different kinds of bagels, a bunch of fruit—ooh, Mama bought breakfast sandwiches,” Lance notices, peering into the freezer.

                “Don’t eat all of those,” Gavin warns, waving his spoon at them. “I’m the one who asked for them.”

                “ _Vale, vale, lo que sea.”_ He looks at the calendar hanging by the kitchen window and notices a distinct lack of purple pen—which means Mari isn’t at dance like he thought. _“_ Hey, _d_ _ónde está Mariposa y Mamá? ¿La tienda?”_

                “No, Mamá took Mari to get her nails done at the new place in Saluda. _Pasar la leche, por favor,_ El.”

                El nudges the milk across the table to where Gavin can reach, and he pours more into his empty glass.

                “So, cereal? Or something more substantial?” Lance asks, turning back to Keith, who’s looking at him with an amused expression. “What?”

                “Nothing,” Keith replies, shaking his head. “What kind of cereal do you have?”

                “ _Dios,_ um. Everything? Cheerios, raisin bran—who even eats raisin bran in this family?—lucky charms, frosted flakes—ooh, froot loops. I’m eating those. Any of those catch your fancy?”

                “Raisin bran, please,” Keith replies, and Lance hands him the box and a bowl even as he fixes him with a questioning stare. He just shrugs, apparently unaffected by Lance’s judgment.

                “You have to be some sort of alien; no sane person eats raisin bran when _Froot Loops_ are an option. Do you want fruit? A banana? Some strawberries? _Mi madre_ always adds fruit when she eats raisin bran, on the rare occasion that she decides being healthy is worth sacrificing sugary cereal for.”

                Keith decides that he would, in fact, like some fruit, and Lance wonders for a moment where this man even _came_ from.

                They finally sit down with their cereal and their very much not black coffee, with Lance next to his dad and Keith next to Gavin.

                El takes the opportunity to look up from her phone, glancing at Keith before she turns to Lance, smirking, just as he takes his first bite of cereal. “ _Tu novio es_ muy _lindo._ ”

                He almost chokes on his spoon. “ _Chica ruda._ _¿Estas tratando de matarme?”_

                “Are you denying it? Interesting.”

                “No, I’m not—ugh, _él no es mi novio. Solo somos amigos.”_

                “ _¿Lo dice en serio?_ _Él durmió en tu cama                !”_

“Stop pestering your brother, El,” Lance’s dad says, and Lance feels a moment of relief that at least his dad is on his side. Then he adds, “You’ll never get answers out of him if he chokes on his coffee during breakfast.”

                “Dad!” Lance protests.

                His dad finally looks up, raising one eyebrow over the top of his newspaper. “What?”

                “ _Esta familia está loca,”_ Lance mutters. “I apologize for my family, Keith.”

                “Don’t,” Keith says, and when Lance turns to him, he looks like he’s fighting a laugh. “It’s pretty funny.”

                “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that and also that it doesn’t imply what I think it implies,” Lance says, staring at him with wide eyes. “I think I’d prefer to save myself at least a little bit of embarassment.”

                El glances between the two of them—at Lance’s horrified expression and red ears, and Keith’s amused half-grin—and then bursts out laughing.

                “I hate you,” Lance grumbles, and stares morosely into his cereal.

                “ _¿Cuándo aprendiste español,_ Keith?” his dad asks, quitting the pretense that he’s actually reading the paper and setting it aside.

                “I started learning about two years ago,” Keith replies, and Lance groans, leaning his elbows on the table hard enough to shake the silverware as he buries his face in his hands. Keith laughs, and pats him consolingly on the shoulder. “Sorry. I was going to tell you—”

                “ _When?”_ Lance demands. “ _When_ were you going to tell me?”

                “I _was_ going to tell you, and then I thought it’d be funnier to do something like this,” Keith continues. Lance looks up to glare at him, and he smiles serenely. “I was right. It is.”

                “I like him,” El declares, grinning wolfishly.

                Keith tilts his head at her. “You think I’m really pretty?”

                And then it’s El’s turn to blush, and Lance’s turn to laugh.

                Leo joins in, doubling over himself in amusement at his sister’s embarassment—a stark change from the stoic silence that he’d kept up for most of the conversation.

                Gavin starts giggling at the head of the table opposite their dad, covering his mouth as though that could hide the sound.

                “I was just teasing Lance,” El mutters, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair.

                “So you _don’t_ think I’m really pretty?” Keith asks, and Leo laughs harder, until his face is as red as El’s and tears stream from the corners of his eyes.

                “They look like twin tomatos,” Gavin stage whispers, and giggles.

                “I think what _actually_ matters here,” El says, smacking a hand on the table and ending Leo’s laughing fit with a startled wheeze, “is if _Lance_ thinks that Keith is really pretty.”

                They all look to Lance expectantly, and he leans back in his chair, casually hooking his feet together at the ankle. “I don’t know why you think that’s in question here. I’ve told Keith he’s pretty more than once.”

                El gapes. Leo leans over, still shaking with the last of his laughter, and gently closes her mouth with his finger.

                 “This is the best breakfast ever,” Gavin announces, and picks his bowl up to pour the last of his milk into his mouth.

                “It’s not bad,” Lance admits, sitting upright again and sipping his coffee. He pretends not to notice when Keith hooks their feet together under the table.

                “It’s not _fair_ ,” El grumbles. “He’s even wearing your _clothes.”_

                Lance shrugs. “He wasn’t planning on staying the night.”

                Before El can pounce on that as proof that they did something more than sleep last night, he stands, taking his empty bowl and mug to the sink. When he turns around, Keith is right behind him, close enough that he could kiss him if he leaned down just a _bit._

                He doesn’t.

                “How do you feel about hiking, Keith?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if any of y'all caught the harry potter reference, ily. i couldn't help myself tbh it just felt like it fit the moment. hmu on tumblr and don't forget to leave comments and kudos!!!!


	8. live and learn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the tags; please be safe! there's nothing incredibly graphic, but there is some violence and homophobia in this chapter.

 

Keith, as it turns out, does _not_ have infinite endurance, especially when the physical activity at hand is hiking.

He’s apparently never been hiking before—and also, evidently, had no idea that it was quite as physically demanding as it is. By the halfway mark, his hair is plastered to his face and he’s lost all energy to push it back, choosing instead to focus his energy on carefully watching every step to avoid falling for a third time after tripping over the uneven trail.

“City boy,” Lance can’t help but tease.

By the time they make it to the meadow that Lance had been leading them to, Keith only has energy to collapse onto the grass on his back and glare at Lance’s smirk.

But it’s okay. They enjoy themselves. And Lance will forever treasure the expression on Keith’s face when he complained one too many times about the length of the hike and how he had _blisters_ forming, and Lance rolled his eyes and picked him up, cutting off his complaints so effectively that he started to wonder why he hadn’t done it earlier.

Keith, for his part, seemed flustered at the further proof of Lance’s fitness. But he didn’t complain.

They wear themselves out. Lance takes Keith to the garage to retrieve his motorcycle—and then they part ways in the late afternoon, content to go home and take a shower before spending the rest of the day to themselves.

Lance rolls into bed at the end of the day exhausted but satisfied, and feels confident that he’ll manage a great night’s sleep before he has to get up the next day.

Of course, life has other plans for him.

_This part of the city was quiet at night. Distantly, he could still hear the music from the club they’d left behind, but it was several blocks away and out of sight, if not out of mind._

_Levi’s hand is warm in his, and their arms swing between them as they walk down the abandoned sidewalk._

_“You think Vicky’s hit the table yet?” Levi asks, giggling a bit as he thinks of it. His cheeks are flushed from the dancing and the single drink he’d allowed himself when he knew that Lance couldn’t drink with him._

_“Probably,” Lance answers. “Unless Sasha managed to stop her.”_

_“Unlikely, with Freya egging her on,” Levi replies. “Did you have fun tonight?”_

_His expression is serious, suddenly—anxious to make sure that Lance was having as good a time as he was._

_Lance smiles at him, tugging him to a stop and stepping closer. “I did. I don’t have to drink to have a good time, Levi; you know that.”_

_“I know,” Levi agrees, “but I also know that sometimes I can get ahead of myself.”_

_Lance laughs this time—he doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it. He shakes his head. “You don’t need to worry about that Levi; you should know that too. I’m happy going at whatever pace you want to set for us. And it’s already been six months—practically an age, for college students.”_

_Levi’s lips twitch into a smile. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I just don’t want to rush into anything, you know? And I definitely don’t want to pressure you into doing something you’re uncomfortable with. You’re sure that we’re okay?”_

_Lance squeezes his hand. “I’m sure, Levi. Are you?”_

_Levi startles, blinking rapidly. “What? Of course I am! Did I do something to make you think I’m not?”_

_“Well, you keep asking if_ I’m _okay…figured maybe you kept asking because you weren’t sure yourself,”_ Lance says. _“Not really seriously, but it was just a thought.”_

_“I think I’m more sure of this than I’ve ever been of anything,” Levi admits, and Lance lets his head fall against his shoulder._

_“God, you can’t just say things like that,” he mutters._

_“Awww, babe,” Levi says. “Are you blushing? Did I make you blush?”_

_“Yes, you fucker,” Lance replies. “God, happy now?”_

_“Awww,” Levi says again. He leans back, putting a hand on Lance’s chin to tilt his face up. “You’re cute. It’s so funny to me that you can flirt endlessly without breaking a sweat, but the second someone reciprocates, your brain stops working.”_

_“Shut up,” Lance mutters. Levi just grins._

_“Can I kiss you?” he asks._

_Lance hesitates. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because—he looks around. The street isn’t quite as deserted as it was before. He can see a group of men on the other side of the street, maybe twenty yards away. They don’t seem like they’re looking, but…well._

_“Don’t worry about them,” Levi dismisses. “They’re not even looking at us. We don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to, but—we shouldn’t be scared of being seen, right? Nothing can change if we’re always hiding.”_

_Lance smiles at him again—the anxiety is still there, but it’s faded under a new rush of warm bubbles of affection for this man in front of him. “I want to kiss you.”_

_“Then you should do that,” Levi whispers, and Lance presses in for a quick kiss—that turns into two, and then three, and then a long, lingering kiss that has stars bursting behind his eyes._

_Something changes. Levi’s lips go cold against his. Lance pulls away, opens his eyes to find Levi staring sadly at him, lips blue, skin gray. He reaches up to touch Lance’s face, and his hand is covered in blood._

_“This is your fault,” he says, voice sweet. “You should’ve tried harder. You could have saved me.”_

_His expression turns from sad to angry in half a second, and suddenly there’s a bruising grip holding Lance’s chin._

_“This is your fault,” he whispers again, gaze cold, and Lance tries to reach for him, but the world dissolves around him._

_He’s on the ground. Everything hurts. People are laughing mockingly above him, wavering together and then apart again—he can’t see any faces. They’re indistinct shadows against the city lights, blurry threats that waver in his vision when he tries to focus. That stupid music from the club is still playing in the distance, and it rings in his ears like a funeral hymn._

_Everything is stained with blood. When he looks, his friends are on the ground next to him, unmoving._

_“You deserve this,” a voice hisses, and it’s Levi again, standing over him, bloodstained and pale and half of his face rotting to show bone underneath._

Dead, dead, dead, _Lance’s brain chants._

 _“I’d still be alive if it weren’t for you,” Levi continues. “You hear that? You killed me, Lance._ You killed me.”

Lance wakes up with his whole body buzzing and a choked scream on the edge of his lips--he cuts himself off, turns it into a strangled sob, hates himself for making a noise at all. His hands shake, his limbs don't want to cooperate, but suddenly his stomach is rising in his throat and he bolts onto his feet and into the bathroom just in time to heave bile into the toilet, and he hates himself for that, too. 

His knees ache dully from their impact with the tiled floor, and he'll probably have bruises in the morning. He doesn't care. Part of him--too much of him--savors the pain, is glad for the way it grounds him when it feels like the world is tilting off its axis and leaving him dizzy as it spins, around and around and around. 

This is stupid. He knows that. It's been nearly two years. Nearly two entire years, and at least a year since the worst of the nightmares mostly faded, and he thought the worst of the trauma faded with them, but here he is, on the floor of his bathroom in the dark at four in the fucking morning, and he can hear footsteps in the hallway. 

"Lance? Lancito?" Maria calls. His Mama, looking after him, as always. 

He doesn't answer her, even when she knocks on the door. He knows she'll come in anyway. 

And she does--walks into his room, sees the bathroom door ajar, flicks on the light, finds him crumpled to the floor with arm braced against the bathtub for support and his skin sticky with sweat, and knows exactly what happened. 

Knows exactly what he'd seen in his dreams, all over again.

"Oh, mi cielo," she murmurs, and stoops down, hesitating when his body flinches automatically at the swift movement and then continuing when he nods assent at her--she gathers him to her in a gentle hug, and he will never stop being grateful for how safe such a simple thing as being held by his mom can make him feel. 

It doesn't make his skin stop crawling, or his scars from itching with phantom pain, but it makes breathing easier again. 

She stands, after some time, pulling him to his feet, and presses a hand to the side of his face, just looking. Just caring. 

He sees her take note of the dark shadows under his eyes, the sheen of sweat on his brow, his haunted eyes, probably giving everything away. Almost definitely giving everything away--this is his mother. She always knows. When she looks, when she takes notice, she sees everything. 

She pats his cheek, and then presses her other hand to his chest, just for a moment, to feel his heartbeat.

"I'll be in the kitchen," she says softly. "Do you want to brush your teeth?" 

He nods, and she leaves him to it, and for a moment he just stares at his reflection in the mirror without seeing, and then he splashes cold water on his face and brushes his teeth until the sour taste in his mouth is gone. 

When he gets to the kitchen, she's heating milk on a pan over the stove, and the kettle is on, and several mugs have been pulled down from the cabinet and lined up on the counter. He sits at the table, resting his chin on his hands, and she hums quietly to herself as she makes hot chocolate and tea. 

Three cups. The hot chocolate, in the biggest mug, is set in front of him, steam drifting from it to dampen his face, and he breathes in the soothing smell of chocolate and feels some of the tension fall from his shoulders. 

She has a cup of jasmine tea for herself, one of her favorites. Sometimes, on these nights, she drinks hot chocolate too, but today it's tea. Lance has never asked why she switches between them. 

The third cup gets placed to his right, in front of an empty chair. It's mint. He can smell it easily from where he's sitting. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Maria asks. He shakes his head, then nods, then sighs and scalds his tongue when he sips at his hot chocolate.

"I don't understand why this keeps happening," he mutters, almost to himself. He's not looking at her. He's looking at the mug of mint tea, made for someone who isn't here. "I should be better by now, right? It's been two years. And it's other things, too—old stuff. I thought I was better. I thought the worst of it was over. I thought it was getting easier." 

"Oh, mijo," his mother says, voice soft. "You know it doesn't work like that."

He blows out a frustrated breath, and nods. "I know. I know, but I can't help but feel like I'm failing at this. Like I should be doing better, and I'm stupid for still struggling."

"You're not," she reminds him. He nods again. "Remember where you were two years ago. Three. Even just one year ago—have you made progress? I think yes. I think that it's just easy to lose sight of how far you've come when you want to forget the past ever happened at all."

He opens his mouth to argue, to say he doesn't want to forget, that that's not what he's been doing, but well—he’s been trying awfully hard. "Remembering hurts too much, most of the time."

Their eyes go to the cooling mug at the same time. Neither of them speak for a moment.

“Are you happy?” she asks.

He thinks about it.

“I’m not…unhappy,” he finally answers. “But that’s part of it, honestly—I’m so used to things going wrong that I feel like something bad is going to happen at any second. It’s like, I get so many good things and then everything is supposed to go to shit again, and it hasn’t happened yet so I feel like I spend all my time worrying about that instead of enjoying where I am and what I have now.”

“The hypervigilence, again?” she asks, tilting her head. Her hands curl closer around her mug as she leans forward, attentive.

“Yeah,” he admits. “And the paranoia, and that fear of losing what I care about.”

She nods, thoughtful. “When was the last time you talked to Val?”

He winces, and she catches it immediately.

“What? Did something happen between you two?”

“We had a fight,” Lance murmurs. “A couple weeks ago, now. I haven’t been avoiding her, exactly, it’s just—I don’t know how to apologize.”

“What was it about?”

“She was worried about me,” Lance says. “I think I knew things were getting bad again, but I was just ignoring it because I didn’t want to believe it, and she saw that, and tried to get me to acknowledge that I needed help. But I just yelled at her. It didn’t go well.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums. She takes a sip of her tea. “She’ll forgive you.”

“I know.”

“You told me, once, that you had several reasons for isolating yourself when you’re upset rather than seeking help. That you didn’t want to bother us or make us upset as well, that being around too many people at once made your anxiety increase and made you feel distant, and, before you came out, that you felt you couldn’t be yourself around us and that was worse than being alone.”

Lance nods. “The last one isn’t so much a problem anymore.”

Maria smiles at him, reaching across the table to grab his hand in hers. “I’m still sorry that it ever was.”

He squeezes her hand in acknowledgment.

“I just want to remind you that the people you care about, who care about you, would never be upset with you for coming to them when you’re having trouble. They want you to be happy too, Lance. We want you to be happy.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I just feel like I’m holding everyone back.”

“You’re not,” she says. “You’ve spent so long hiding, so long wearing a mask and pretending to be someone you’re not—holding your breath. You can breathe now. You can be yourself. And we will love you unconditionally.”

He smiles, trying to pretend that there aren’t tears in his eyes, and she slides her mug out of the way so she can lean across the table and wrap her arms around his shoulders, tugging him forward and sliding one hand up to the back of his neck to cradle him against her. He can’t help it when his shoulders start to shake from the tears he’s been holding back ever since he woke up, and she doesn’t pull away—just holds him closer.

“Shh, _mijo,_ it’s all right. Let it out. I’m sorry I didn’t see until now. I’m sorry I haven’t been there when you needed me. I’m here now. I’m here. It’s okay. Shh, _mi cielo, mi niño…”_

When he’s all cried out, and manages to get his stiff fingers to untwist from the fabric of her shirt, he pulls back and wipes at his face and she stands and takes her mug to the sink.

She walks back over and stands next to him, pressing his head against her stomach, and he leans into it, staring at his mug.

“You cannot keep blaming yourself, Lance,” she says. “Nothing that has happened is your fault. Do you understand me?”

He nods, not sure he can trust his voice.

“Are you going back to sleep tonight?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you want me to stay up with you?”

He pauses, and then shakes his head again.

“Are you sure?”

He inhales shakily, and nods again, pulling away. “I’m sure. You should go get some more rest. I have a lot to think about.”

She hesitates, fingers still combing slowly through his hair.

He summons a small smile for her. “I’ll be fine, Mama. _Lo prometo.”_

“ _Te creo, Lancito. Me preocupa, pero sé que estarás bien. Eres un sobreviviente. Siempre has sido,_ ” she murmurs. She leans down, cupping his face in her hands and stroking her thumb across his cheek. “You hear me, _mi niño?_ You will be okay. I know it, as a mother knows.” She pulls a hand away to tap a fist against her chest, then her stomach. “Here, and here. I know these things. You know I know these things. I am right, yes?”

“ _Sí, Mama,”_ he replies. “I’ll be okay.”

She pats his cheek again, planting a kiss on the top of his head, and then makes her way out of the kitchen, pulling her robe closer around her as she heads back to bed, humming quietly to herself.

He looks at the third mug still sitting, untouched, on the table, for several long minutes, tapping his fingers on his own nearly empty mug.

After the house has settled back into sleep around him, he stands, picking up the mug of now cold mint tea, and pours it down the drain.

………………………..

It takes six shots for Lance to finally bite the bullet and call Val. 

He'd been planning on--and trying to--call her all day, and kept chickening out, and then he'd decided to get drunk completely unrelated because he just wanted to relax, and then he'd found himself pulling out his phone and what better time to call than now, right? 

"Lance," Val greets, and she sounds wary.

"I'm sorry," he says. Now is one of the times that he's very grateful for his high metabolism, because he'd probably only make things worse if he called her and apologized while slurring and sloppy drunk. "You were right, and you were worried, and I didn't want to listen. I shouldn't have yelled at you." 

"I don't care about  _that,"_ she says. "I care if you're okay."

"I know. But you deserved an apology anyway." 

"Maybe," Val admits. There's a beat of silence. "So? Are you?" 

"Am I what?" he asks.

"Okay?"

He inhales loudly, long and deep, and then sighs just as loudly. "Am I? I don't know. Right in this moment? Probably not. But I'm not running away from my feelings anymore, or from the people who are just trying to help me, so that's something." 

"And how are things with Keith?" she asks, and he can hear the sly grin in her voice.

"I don't deserve him," Lance admits. "I thought he'd be the one that needed to earn back my trust, that he'd be the unbalanced side of the relationship, but he's not. I am."

"Lance--"

"No, no, don't say I'm not," Lance interrupts, before she has the chance to argue with him. "I know I am. I'm a huge mess and I suck at opening up and being vulnerable and asking for help even when I really, really need it. And he cares so much and he's been alone for so long and he deserves so much more than what I can give him."

"Love isn't about deserving, Lance," Val reminds him.

He sighs again. "I know."

"And you know if you feel like this, the best thing you can do to fix it is to talk to him about it. Healthy relationships are built on communication, Lance. And you should give him the chance to decide for himself whether or not you're good enough for him. Which you are, by the way--I still think you're a saint for giving him a second chance in the first place, and I am 100% ready to beat his ass if he so much as breathes wrong in your direction."

Lance smiles at that. "Val, you wonderful spirit of chaos and destruction. How long have you been waiting to tell me that?" 

"Several weeks. Now shhh, young padawan, your Obi-Wan is speaking," she says, and he groans at the reference but doesn't interrupt further. "I'm gonna tell you a secret--everyone is a mess, and no one has their shit together. Sometimes it might look like it, but I promise you that we're all just pretending that we know what we're doing while screaming on the inside because life feels like being in an out-of-control car with no steering wheel or brakes. The most you can do is your best--and everyone's best looks different. Sometimes that involves hiding in a blanket fort for a week, like you did when you were nine and you found out that space is infinite and had an existential crisis about your place in the universe. Or maybe it's smoking weed on your breaks at work so that you can go back in and be a waitress without stabbing the old guys that keep hitting on you, like I did when I was sixteen. Or it's pouring sugar in the gas tank of your abusive boyfriend's prized car, like Mama did when she was twenty, before she met Papa. Sometimes your best is lying facedown in the dirt until the world doesn't feel so much like it's against you, and sometimes your best is screaming along to the radio with people you love, and sometimes it's somewhere in between. But my point is--it's okay to struggle, Lance. It's okay to need help, and it's okay to ask for that help, and you're not a failure for it. You're not a failure for not being okay all the time. If anyone was, I'd question whether or not they're human." 

"Are they human or are they dancer," Lance whispers. 

"Lance," Val groans. "Did you listen to what I said?" 

"Every word. And I felt that a joke was needed to lighten the mood, because boy was that a lot."

"You dork." 

"Nerd." 

There's quiet for a moment again, and then Lance sighs and sits up from where he's been laying on his back on the rooftop, nearly falling sideways as the world spins more than he'd been expecting, and he smacks his hand down to steady himself. 

"Oh, hello," he murmurs. 

"Hello what?" Val asks.

Lance wrinkles his nose. "I may or may not have underestimated how much vodka I drank."

"Are you drinking alone on the floor of you bedroom again? We've talked about this, Lance. It never actually makes you feel better." 

"The roof, actually," Lance replies, and winces with regret as soon as the word are out.

When Val speaks, her voice is dangerously low. "Lance McClain. Are you telling me that you're drunk, alone, on a roof that doesn't have a proper ladder?"

"No?" Lance tries. Val swears at him. "Okay, maybe yes. To be fair, I didn't realize the vodka was hitting me this hard. And it's really not that bad; I just got a bit of the spins from sitting up too fast." 

"You're such a little shit," she says. "Stop fucking drinking alone, Lance. You need at least one other person there to be your impulse control." 

"That's fair," Lance concedes. "Thank you, by the way." 

"For what?" 

"For calling me on my bullshit," he says. "And also for the life advice." 

"Did it help?"

"Yeah," he replies. "Yeah, I think it did."

He tilts his head back, looking at the stars, and lets their soothing presence wash over him for a moment before pushing himself onto his feet. 

His legs are maybe just a little wobblier than he expected.

"Why did I ever think drinking alone on a roof was a good idea?" he mutters.

"Because you have no impulse control and you do everything for the aesthetic. Also, you're an idiot." 

"Gee, thanks, Val," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You're welcome," she replies breezily. "Now, on a scale of midnight at Denny's in '15 to Uncle Julio in celebration mode, how bad is it?" 

Lance thinks about it. "I'd say it's a pretty solid tie with the shopping cart race night." 

Val sighs. "Well, at least it's not Toni on his 21st. Don't move, I'm coming to get you." 

"I think I can get down the first half easy enough," he says. "It's just the last bit that I'm unsure of." 

"That's because the last bit doesn't have a ladder like the other parts. I'm literally leaving now, it'll take me five minutes. Don't try to get down on your own; I don't want to have to take you to the emergency room like that one time with Micah in high school."

"I thought he broke his arm playing soccer?" 

"No, he fell when he was climbing down from the roof because he was high as a fucking kite, we just told everyone he was playing soccer because otherwise we would've gotten our asses chewed."

"Fair." 

"I'm hanging up now, I have to drive. Don't do anything stupid til I get there." 

"What, and miss out on having you do the stupid things with me? I wouldn't dare." 

"Yeah, yeah. See you in five minutes, dork."

"Nerd." 

She hangs up, and he smiles at the call screen on his phone for half a beat before turning it off and putting it in his pocket, determined to tackle at least the first half of climbing down the roof so that Val doesn't have to climb up after him. 

Even with his balance shot, it's mostly easy to hold onto a ladder. 

When he's finished that, he walks over to the last part--the part without a ladder, and only a cylindrical piece of metal sticking out from the wall that's probably part of the air conditioning system to use as a stepping stone towards the ground--and sits on the edge of the roof, swinging his legs and pulling his phone back out of his pocket.

 **lanceylance:** sup guys i'm drunk as fuck it's q & a time

 **memethew:** who's the best bj you've ever had go

 **lanceylance:** not you next question

 **pidgeotto:** roasted

 **memethew:** blocked

 **lanceylance:** hey matt unblock me real quick i need to tell u smthn

 **memethew:** unblocked

 **lanceylance:** bitch

 **pidgeotto:** can't believe i just witnessed the death of my own brother 

 **pidgeotto:** sometimes I can still hear his voice

 **queen:** lance why are you drunk on a tuesday

 **lanceylance:** why aren't you

 **queen:**...fair. carry on

 **takashit:** is keith your boyfriend

 **lanceylance:** WOW

 **lanceylance:** shiro over here taking no prisoners, leaving no survivors

 **lanceylance:** coming straight out with the real questions

 **pidgeotto:** straight where

 **lanceylance:** my bad

 **lanceylance:** PAN out with the real questions

 **takashit:** you haven't answered the question

 **lanceylance:** we haven't had the talk yet but i fell asleep on him at the movies the other night so probably

 **pidgeotto:** you do that to hunk all the time does that mean you're dating him

 **lanceylance:** hunk and i have been dating since the second grade and we're getting married in the spring next question

Before anyone can reply, he hears the distant sound of a car engine coming closer, and when he looks up, he can see his sister's car pulling in at the end of the road.

 **lanceylance:** wait nvm my sister's here to get me off the roof gotta blast

 **pidgeotto:** what do you mean get you off the roof

 **memethew:** lance

 **takashit:** lance come back here

Lance turns off his phone, grinning, and watches patiently as Val parks the car and strides over to where his legs dangle over the edge of the roof. 

"Well this is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation," she drawls, planting her hands on her hips, and he laughs.

"I dunno, it's pretty fun looking down on you. I always knew I was meant to surpass all your achievements."

Val raises an eyebrow. "What achievements?" 

"God, what a fucking mood," Lance replies, and leans farther forward, squinting down at her. "So how are we doing this? Am I jumping?"

"No, you're getting down as far as you can on your own and then I'm catching you when you inevitably fall," Val answers. 

"I'd be offended by that, except that you're right," Lance says. He braces his hands against the edge of the roof, lowering himself down carefully until his foot brushes the top of the metal cylinder, and then lets his weight brace against that, crouching down until he can move sideways and sit on the cylinder with his feet braced against the brick wall. He starts to shimmy down, turning his body as he does so that his shoulder braces against the cylinder, and he's only maybe a foot or so away from being able to jump the last bit when his foot slips and he can't find the balance to catch himself.

Val slows his fall so that he lands on his feet instead of slamming into the concrete and falling on his ass, which he appreciates. He doesn't have the patience to deal with a sprained ankle this summer. 

"You are so lucky you have me," she mutters, and he nods agreement before stepping away and spinning around, grinning.

"Val, darling, have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?" he asks, batting his eyelashes, and she smacks him lightly on the shoulder before hooking her arm in his to lead him to the car. 

"I don't believe you have, brother dear," she replies. 

"I love you more than cotton candy," he says. 

"Love you too, baby dork."

He climbs into the passenger seat, stretching his legs out in front of him, and she offers an amused smile at his sprawling posture, before scowling at him when he pulls the half-empty bottle of vodka from the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Give me that," she demands, and snatches it from him before he can move to avoid her. "How did you get this off the roof without dropping it?" 

He winks at her. "Magic." 

"Yeah, whatever. You don't need any more of that. You're coming home with me, and you're going to drink water, and then you're going to crash on the couch, and in the morning you're going to text Keith and ask him to meet you somewhere and you're going to  _talk_ to him. Okay?" 

"Sounds like a solid plan, except I desperately do not want to do that." 

"Suck it up, buttercup, you're doing it anyway."

"Every time I'm away from you for longer than a week I somehow forget about how bossy you are."

“Then you should stop disappearing on me,” Val says, and Lance nods agreement.

“You’re right,” he says, seriously. She pauses at that, but doesn’t say anything about it.

Whatever tension that’s left between them has dissolved by the time the car stops. Lance feels a pound of weight drop from his shoulders when it’s gone—he relies on Val more than he’d ever like to admit to himself.

She sets him up on the couch. Forces a glass of water down his throat.

He complains, but—it’s nice, being cared for.

He should let people do it more often.

………………………….

As much as he wishes it were possible, Lance's anxiety doesn't just go away after he starts opening up to the people who care about him.

That's not all he's doing, granted--he refilled his prescription, finally, and started taking his meds again, and tried to keep to a schedule that would limit the amount of time he could spend wallowing in bed. 

He hated it. A lot. The meds made him feel fuzzy, most of the time, and reacted weird with his Adderall, although his doctor always said that it wasn't a negative enough reaction for them to change it when they knew that these meds were helping his anxiety.

And they do, a bit. Most of the time. It's just the other things that make him wonder whether it's worth it--lack of motivation, drowsiness, the focusing issues. Loss of appetite. 

He's gone through this whole song and dance before. It took a year before they found a prescription that wouldn't worsen his symptoms or make him feel suicidal, and he doesn't really want to go through that again. These are fine, right? He can handle a few negative side effects.

But the point is--even with all of that, his anxiety doesn't just disappear. He knows it probably won't ever leave completely, and it sucks to think about. 

But it sucks more right now, at three in the fucking morning, when he's staring at his ceiling trying to just  _give in_ to the exhaustion making the edges of his vision dark and bleary, and his brain won't  _let him fucking sleep._

He has meds for this, too, now, because he mentioned it at his last appointment, but they're basically tranquilizers and they're awful and he hates how slow and foggy they make him feel the next day after he takes them, so he doesn't bother to get up and get them from the medicine cabinet in his bathroom.

He'd rather not sleep. 

But just laying here is making the restless energy build up, not go away, so he sighs and gets up and gets dressed and slips his phone, wallet, and keys into the pocket of his shorts, and then he climbs out of his window to go for a walk. 

He texts his dad, who keeps his phone on silent during the night and won't be woken up by it, that he's gone for a walk because he couldn't sleep and to tell Mama not to worry. 

And then he walks.

He thinks about going to the elementary school, because it's a good place to think, but he's been thinking too much lately and he doesn't really want to deal with the sort of insightful existential bullshit his brain will start spewing if he goes to the roof or the church up the hill from the school. No one's awake in the rest of the town, anyway, so he'll be fine walking through the residential areas. 

He's tempted to text someone--the group chat, Hunk, Keith, Val. But he doesn't want to risk waking any of them up at ass o'clock in the morning, so his phone stays in his pocket. 

He walks for a while. Loops back. Takes the long way. 

The houses fade from well-maintained and taken care of to rundown and dilapidated--he can hear a dog barking, somewhere. A couple screaming at each other down the street. 

It's late enough that any parties that were going on have wound down or ended. There's a man that looks to be in his late twenties/early thirties passed out half-naked and snoring on someone's front lawn. Empty cups and other assorted types of trash litter the ground. 

Although the houses are a lot smaller, it reminds Lance of the block of frat houses just off campus from his university. He's gone to parties there before, and trekked home to scenery eerily similar to this, although he's always had friends with him. 

He reassures himself mentally that he doesn't need to be worried here. It's a small town. He's sober. All the people that might normally harass him are passed out or asleep. 

A door opens and slams shut at a house across the street. A woman stomps out, face contorted with rage, and lights a cigarette with shaking fingers. When she sees him, she nods at him, and then goes back to her cigarette, leaning on the railing of her porch. 

He wonders if that's the house the yelling was coming from.

She goes back inside before he hits the end of the street--where there's someone else doing nearly the same thing, although they're sitting on a plastic lawn chair and nursing a beer. There's a six pack next to them with only two left. 

Lance only glances at their face, but he's surprised that a jolt of recognition runs through him--he went to school with the guy. 

He keeps walking, hoping he'll make it past without being recognized, but luck isn't with him. 

"Lance McClain," the voice muses, and whistles. "Been a while."

"Sure has," Lance says, and doesn't stop. 

"What's got you out here in the middle of the night?" Bobby asks. 

Lance shrugs. "Nothing specific. Went on a walk." 

"You gonna bother to stop and chat with an old friend, or are you just gonna keep walking away like that?" Bobby says, and there's an edge to his voice. 

Lance stops, looking back. "We were never friends, Bobby."

"Ouch," Bobby says, grinning. "That really hurts my feelings, you know it? Here I was just trying to be nice." 

Lance shakes his head and turns back around. He's barely taken a step when Bobby speaks again, and this time his tone is harsh, threatening. 

"I saw you, you know." 

"I do live here. I'd be surprised if you hadn't seen me," Lance replies, without looking at him. 

He can hear the creaking of Bobby standing from the plastic chair. When he turns, he's walking slowly across the yellowed lawn, flicking ash from his cigarette. 

He stops in front of Lance. Takes a drag, squinting at his face. 

Points at him. "No, I mean I  _saw_ you. At the drive-in the other night. I was there with my girl, and as we were leaving I saw you all cuddled up with that Kogane kid--the one that ran out after graduation. Figured he'd ended up dead in a ditch somewhere, after that stunt, but I guess not." 

Lance doesn't say anything. His skin is tingling with warning, and the spidery feeling only gets worse when Bobby leans in close enough for him to smell his bad breath. 

"Guess you thought no one'd see you there. Thought you could get away with it because it's out of town. Well,  _I_ saw you."

"Congratulations," Lance says, doing his best to sound bored. "Do you want a gold star?" 

Bobby's leer turns to a scowl, and he leans back, squinting appraisingly at Lance all over again. "You should watch your mouth, McClain. Show some fucking respect." 

"Thanks for the advice. Can I get back to my walk now?" he asks, and turns without waiting for an answer. 

Bobby catches his arm and spins him around before he can actually get anywhere.

"Are you fucking listening, you fucking fairy?" he shouts in Lance's face, and Lance pulls his arm roughly from his grip and steps back to put some distance between them, defensive.

"I'm not looking for a fight, Bobby," he says. And despite the anger curling in his gut--he's really not. He'd rather get home without having to lay out a former classmate.

"Yeah? Well it sure seems like you are, flaunting that shit in a public place," Bobby snarls. "My ol' man woulda killed you for it."

Lance doesn't bother to respond to that, except to raise his eyebrow. It only seems to infuriate Bobby further.

"Know what I think? I think no one ever taught you a lesson, so now you think you can do whatever you want. I think I should teach you a lesson," he threatens. 

"I think you should go back to your house and sleep off the beer, Bobby, instead of doing something you'll regret," Lance says. 

Bobby flicks his cigarette into the grass and swings at Lance's face. 

Lance had put enough distance between them that it's relatively easy to dodge, and he shoves at Bobby's shoulder when he comes close so that he stumbles off balance. 

"Hold fucking still," Bobby growls, and Lance wonders if he should call the cops. He'd rather not--knowing his town, they'd probably side with Bobby. "You know you fucking deserve this." 

And that—his fucking stupid ass brain echoes the words back at him, and he freezes remembering the last time he heard them, when he and Levi got jumped. 

It lasts long enough for Bobby's fist to find his face with a speed he hadn’t been expecting, and he feels something snap in his nose as he stumbles back, hands flying to his face to try and stop the flow of blood. Bobby takes advantage of his distraction to jab another fist into his side, sending him curling over his ribs with choked groan of pain.

When Bobby comes at him again, he's ready, even with his eyes watering from the pain, and he punches him in the jaw as hard as he can, ignoring the pain in his hand. 

Bobby tackles him--he hits the asphalt and feels it scrape a few layers of skin off where his clothes don't protect him, and winces at a sudden pain in his wrist. 

But adrenaline has taken over by now, and he rolls them over before Bobby can pin him and start punching, throwing his elbow into Bobby's gut and then scrambling to his feet. 

Bobby follows suit, apparently determined to try and salvage what's left of his dignity, or he's just too drunk to realize that he's losing. Lance grabs his arm before he ever touches him and twists it behind his back until Bobby doubles over and shouts in pain, and he doesn't let go.

"Leave me the fuck alone," he snarls, and shoves. Bobby lands facedown in the dirt and groans--he rolls himself over to sit and clutch his arm, scowling, but he doesn't get up to follow, so Lance turns and power walks to the end of the street, until he's out of sight, and then he runs. 

He can feel everything starting to sink in and overwhelm him, and he can't afford to have an anxiety attack here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, when Bobby is still conscious and drunk and bruised, so he runs until breathing gets hard and then he keeps running, ignoring the way the wind stings his scraped skin and the blood gushing down his face and staining his shirt. 

He finally stops when he gulps in a breath of air and chokes on blood instead, and has to double over on the side of the road, coughing.

"Ugh," he groans, spitting. " _Fuck."_

He sits down on the curb, trying to get his shaking under control, body still buzzing with adrenaline. More blood drips onto his shirt. He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his broken nose as carefully as he can, just above the break.

Because there’s no doubt it’s broken. Fucking dick.

“I hate this town,” Lance mutters.

He looks up. He's only a few blocks from his house. The sky is starting to turn gray. 

Gently, he feels around his nose, wincing again, and sighs.  

"Only me, I swear to fucking god," he mutters.

Eventually, he lurches back to his feet, reasoning to himself that despite his exhaustion, he can’t stay here. Bobby might decide to come after him anyway, or one of the people living here might see him bleeding on the curb and call the cops, or—

Well. He probably needs to go to the hospital, anyway.

Neither of his parents will be awake yet, but he needs to get his broken nose set by someone who knows what they're doing. He could go to Val's--have her fiancee do it--but he's not sure she's home, because sometimes she works night shifts, and he doesn't want Val to see him like this anyway. 

So instead of going inside, he pulls his keys from his pocket and climbs into his car, pulling a wad of napkins from his glove compartment to hold against his face and stop the worst of the bleeding, and then he starts the car and starts driving. 

The hospital is only twenty minutes away. He's got good insurance through his parents; they can handle an emergency room visit. 

It's probably a good thing the roads are abandoned at this time of night. 

The ER is abandoned too, except for a guy who's very obviously drunk being supported by his buddies--there's something wrong with his leg, maybe a sprain or maybe a minor break, but he's not putting any weight on it--and a six-year-old girl sleeping on her mom's lap. There's a disposable puke bag in the mom's hand, so he'd guess the girl is sick. 

The receptionist doesn't even blink at his appearance. He's sure she's seen worse. 

He fills out the paperwork she gives him, and takes the pager, and then he goes and sits in a corner of the waiting room farthest from everyone else, and pulls out his phone, using his left hand because it has less blood on it. 

 **lanceylance:** I’m starting to think that summers just have it out for me

 **lanceylance:** it’s the only thing that makes sense, as often as I get injured during the summer

 **pidgeon:** Lance wtf it’s 4am

 **pidgeon:** wait what do you mean injured

 **pidgeon:** LANCE WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO

 **lanceylance:** [sent a photo]

 **pidgeon:** JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

 **hunkybear:** oh my god are you at the hospital? ???

 **pidgeon:** did you break your fucking nose

 **lanceylance:** probably

 **lanceylance:** also yea I’m in the ER at memorial

 **pidgeon:** what happened????????? did u get in a fistfight with the stairs at your house

 **lanceylance:** just a fistfight

 **pidgeon:** it is FOUR IN THE FUCKING MORNING

 **pidgeon:** who did u get in a fistfight with at 4am????

 **lanceylance:** bobby west

 **pidgeon:** who the fuck

 **hunkybear:** who’s there with you? Val?? Toni?? ? I hope it’s Val she’s good in a crisis

 **lanceylance:** no one??? I’m here alone

 **hunkybear:** …how did you get there?

 **lanceylance:** I drove???? lmao what kind of question

 **hunkybear:** LANCE WTF

 **hunkybear:** you had to choose the one weekend I’m out of town

 **memethew:** shiro’s starting to get grumpy bc the text alerts keep waking him up why r y’all like this

 **pidgeotto:** scroll the fuck up

 **memethew:** LANCE WHAT THE FUCK

 **lanceylance:** what

 **pidgeotto:** don't 'what' us u little bitch i will milk your spleen

 **lanceylance:** chill i'm fine

 **lanceylance:** it looks worse than it is

 **memethew:** reEALLY? BC IT FUKCIN LOOKS LIKE UR FACE GOT MURDERED

 **lanceylance:** rude? that's no way to speak to ur former lover

 **hunkybear:** explain????? why did you get in a fistfight with bobby??? why were you out at four am?

 **lanceylance:** my meds have been fuckin with my sleep so i went for a walk at 3 and ran into an old classmate

 **lanceylance:** apparently he saw keith and i at the drive-in a couple weeks ago and he had a few things to say about it

 **memethew:** holy shit, man

 **pidgeotto:** fucking yikes. did u leave him alive?

 **lanceylance:** i have self restraint, pidge. he wasn't even unconscious

 **lanceylance:** anyway it’s nbd

 **lanceylance:** i'm just here to get my broken nose set properly so it doesn't heal crooked 

 **pidgeotto:** you have no fucking self preservation instincts

 **hunkybear:** call your fucking mom

 **lanceylance:** o shit

 **pidgeotto:** get fucked, lance

 **memethew:** damn lance has Awoken the Mom Friend

 **memethew:** rip in fuking pieces, buddy

 **lanceylance:** i'm fine bro I promise. I don’t wanna wake her up

 **hunkybear:** do it anyway???? she’d want you to call her, Lance

 **lanceylance:** …can I call Val instead

 **hunkybear:** fine but I expect updates on the situation

 **hunkybear:** and you do realize you’ll have to tell her eventually?? she’s gonna find out when you go home, lance.

 **lanceylance:** yea I kno

 **lanceylance:** I’ll ask val to warn her ahead of time

 **lanceylance:** u should all go tf 2 sleep now tho I’m fine

 **pidgeotto:** shut the hell your mouth

 **memethew:** we’re staying awake until we know for sure you’re okay

 **hunkybear:** ^^

 **hunkybear:** also you should call someone to come be there with you

 **hunkybear:** I’d already be on my way but I’m four hours away

 **lanceylance:** I think indira’s working. I’ll let u kno

 **pidgeotto:** good. now go get fixed up; your nose looks like a smashed tomato

 **lanceylance:** gee, thanks, pidge. nice 2 kno u care

 **pidgeotto:** ur welcome

He figures that’s as good a time as any to exit the conversation, clicking off his phone and picking up the buzzing pager to go to the front desk. 

She takes the pager from him and then has a nurse lead him back. 

"What happened?" she asks, scribbling something down on a clipboard.

"Got a door slammed in my face and ended up falling," he lies. She looks like she definitely doesn't believe him, but doesn't question it. 

"Your nose is almost definitely broken, and your wrist looks like it's got a minor sprain, too. Those scrapes need cleaned, but they'll heal on their own. The doctor will be in soon to check you over."

She waves him into a room, and he sits on the bed gingerly, trying not to drip blood everywhere. He's still holding napkins to his face.

Sighing, he pulls his phone back out of his pocket, figuring now's probably as good a time as any to get the call out of the way.

It rings for long enough that he has a chance to hope his sister won't answer, but then the line clicks.

"Hello?" her groggy voice mumbles. "Lance?" 

"Hi, Val," he says. "Sorry I woke you up, but Hunk made me promise to call." 

"Lance?" she asks again, and now she sounds both more awake and definitely alarmed. "Did something happen? Why are you calling at--four in the morning?"

"Okay, well, you know how I go on walks at night sometimes when I can't sleep--I did that tonight, and I ran into Bobby fucking West, and he apparently saw me on a date with Keith and he sort of broke my nose. I'm in the ER at Memorial. You don't have to come, or anything, Hunk just wanted me to make sure someone knew." 

"Lance, what the actual fuck?" she says, and he can hear cloth rustling as she presumably gets out of bed. When he doesn't say anything, she says, and says, "Indira is there. Her shift is almost over. I'll have her check on you."

"Thanks," he says. "Maybe let mom know, when it's a more reasonable hour? I don't want her to freak out when I come home." 

"Yeah, sure. You sure you're okay without me there? I don't mind. It's a short drive."

"No, I'll be fine. It'll probably be awhile before I'm out of here, anyway. You know how they like to keep you waiting," he says. 

"Yeah, I know," she replies. "Be careful, will you? I love you. I'll call Indira." 

"Love you too," Lance says. She hangs up. 

He stares at his phone. There are new messages in the group chat, but he doesn't bother to check them. Instead, he lays back on the bed with a groan and tries to find a way to drape his arm over his eyes to block out the bright fluorescent lights without hurting his nose even more. 

Blood trickles down the back of his throat. The clock on the wall ticks loudly. He can hear nurses walking back and forth in the hallway.

It’s been maybe just over twenty minutes when someone knocks.

“Lance?”

Indira.

“Come in,” he calls, sitting up again. Indira walks through the door, wearing pale pink scrubs and looking concerned.

“Val called me. She said you got in a fight?” she says. She reaches out to grab his chin, gently tilting his face back and forth to inspect the damage.

“To be fair, I didn’t start it,” he replies. She arches an eyebrow, letting go and stepping back, crossing her arms.

“Yeah, I know. Some homophobe, apparently?”

Lance nods confirmation, grimacing when it sends a spike of pain through his head. “Bobby West. We were in the same class in high school; he’s always been a Grade A asshole. Apparently he saw Keith and I together when we were at the movies.”

“How did you even end up running into him?” she asks, leaning back against the side table, crossing her legs at the ankles.

“I went on a walk. Ended up in his neighborhood, although I didn’t know he lived there, or I would’ve steered clear. He was outside drinking beer. Saw me walk by. Decided to make things personal, I guess.”

“Shitty,” Indira sums up. “Want me to kill him?”

He grins at her. “Nah. I’m sure he’s learned his lesson. I left him crying in the dirt.”

The doctor comes in, trailed by a different nurse than before. If they’re surprised to see Indira there, they don’t show it.

His nose is broken. His wrist is also sprained. He has a massive bruise across one side of his ribs, but nothing’s broken, and his scrapes will heal up on their own, so long as he keeps them clean.

All in all—he’s had much, much worse.

Indira skips out halfway through to finish up what’s left of her shift, promising to come back when’s she’s done.

They set his nose. It hurts like a bitch.

Once everything’s settled and all the paperwork’s filled out, he ends up sprawled out on one of the awful waiting room chairs again, waiting for Val while his head pounds in time with his pulse.

He recognizes her footsteps coming down the hall, but doesn’t bother standing or opening his eyes, even when she stops right next to him.

“Up, McClain. I’m driving you home,” she tells him.

“I’m not leaving my car here,” he replies, still not moving. If he can just get his headache to ease a little, he’ll be fine to drive himself.

“Good thing you won’t have to,” Indira replies. “Val drove me to work. Give me your keys.”

He opens his eyes, checking her expression, and as soon as he sees the hard line of her jaw he reaches wordlessly into his pocket and pulls out his keys, handing them over.

He falls asleep in the car. Indira wakes him up to get him to stumble into the house—apartment, because she apparently loves him enough to take him to her and Val’s place instead of home, where Mama would inevitably freak out—and he’s asleep again before his body is even fully settled on the couch.

……………………….

As soon as his fuzzy brain settles into consciousness, he groans.

When he opens his eyes, there’s a hand hovering above him holding a bottle of Tylenol.

“Can I interest you in some pain killers?” Val asks, voice flat, and—oh, no. He knows that tone. She’s pissed.

“Just—end me,” he says, flopping a hand at her. “Toss me out the window. Hit me with your car. I’m not picky.”

“For fuck’s sake, Lance,” Val says, and then her hand is around his uninjured wrist, pulling him into a sitting position. “Take some fucking Tylenol. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Don’t go back to sleep; I’ll be right back.”

She leaves after pressing the bottle of pills firmly into his hand, and he sighs, pouring three of them into his hand and downing all of them at once, chasing them with a gulp of water and wincing when they catch in his throat before going down.

When she comes back, she’s balancing a plate in each hand, both piled with food—pancakes, bacon, and eggs. She sets one on the table in front of him and sits on the couch with the other, stabbing her fork angrily into the eggs.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess you’re not happy with me,” Lance says, and she shoots him a glare.

“What a genius deduction. You should be a detective, Lance,” she says, voice flatter than ever, and he grimaces.

“Listen, I wasn’t looking for trouble. I tried to walk away, but he wouldn’t let me. And he swung first, just to be clear.”

Val looks about two seconds away from hurling her plate at his head. “I’m not mad you got in a fucking fight, you soggy goddamn waffle. I’m mad that you drove yourself to the hospital instead of calling someone like a rational fucking human being. And I’m _also_ mad that you were taking a walk in that neighborhood at that time of night like a fucking idiot.”

“To be fair, I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going at the time.”

“ _To be fair,_ you’re a fucking dumbass,” Val shoots back. And then she sighs, settling back into the cushions. “I was worried, you fucking asshole. I get a call at 4am and you’re in the ER? And you say you got in a fight, and that it’s ‘not that bad’ but I know you’re a fucking liar because you’d say that if you got stabbed, so I have to wait until Indira gets home hauling your black and blue ass behind her to get confirmation that you’re not fucking dying.”

She stabs a pancake, metal fork screeching against the glass plate with an awful sound that only punctuates her rant.

“I’m sorry,” Lance offers.

She scoffs, shoving food into her mouth.

“No, really, I—I know I worry everyone a lot. Too much. I don’t try; it just kind of happens,” he says. “And—I would’ve called you, if I’d thought about it. But I was just thinking that I was tired and that my head fucking hurt and that I needed to get my broken nose set so it didn’t heal crooked and ruin the artwork that is my face, and that I didn’t want to wake anybody up while I was bleeding all over the place because it’d probably cause screaming and then it’d be a whole thing and everyone would think it was worse than it is—”

“Jesus,” Val interrupts. “Breathe.”

He does, wheezing out a laugh on the exhale, and reaches forward to grab his own plate of food, leaning into the arm of the couch. “Sorry.”

“I’m not mad at you, not really,” Val says. “Just worried. Indira brings you in and you were so out of it; practically asleep on your feet. You didn’t even notice me standing there; just walked straight to the couch and collapsed.”

“I mean. The reason I was walking in the first place was because I couldn’t sleep,” Lance reminds her.

She nods. “I know. But it scared the fuck out of me, Lance.”

Silence falls. They both work their way methodically through their plates of food.

“Weren’t you supposed to have work today?” he asks. She glances at him, pushing scrambled eggs around her plate.

“I took off,” she answers.

“You didn’t have to,” he protests, lowering his fork with the bite he was about to take.

She looks at him, eyes serious. “Yeah,” she says. “I did.”

He blows out a breath. “Okay.”

She nods, glad that he hadn’t continued to argue. “By the way, I told Mama about what happened. Sent her a picture of your face, too, because I figured it’d be better if she could prepare herself. If you don’t go home soon she’ll probably show up and drag you back by your ear.”

Lance cringes into the couch. “Is there still time to fake my own death?”

“No. Don’t be a baby. She’s worried about you, too.”

Lance sighs, chewing the last bite of his bacon morosely and then standing, taking his plate and empty glass to the kitchen. “Time to face the fucking music, I guess. If she murders me, don’t let Matt plan my funeral.”

“You got it, baby bro,” Val replies.

It’s a close thing, when he gets home.

He drives himself, because his headache has faded with the help of the Tylenol, and because Val is in the passenger seat, watching him with sharp eyes as though expecting him to keel over at any second.

His Mama is waiting on the porch, eyes stormy. Hugo is on her hip, trying to eat his own hand. It somehow only adds to the intimidation.

“Rest in peace,” Val says. “I’ll write you a nice eulogy.”

“Shut up,” Lance mutters, and gets out of the car. “Heyy, Mama—”

“ _Lance Alejandro Emilio Ricardo McClain._ _¿Que estabas pensando? Val me llama, diciendo que estabas en una pelea, ¡a las cuatro de la mañana! ¡Fuiste al hospital y lo escuché de tu hermana! ¿No puedes llamar a tu madre? ¿No puedes decirme que estás bien? ¡Casi tuve un ataque al corazón! ¡Me matarás con esto, Lance!”_

The torrent of Spanish has him shrinking, shoulders hunching up to his ears as he raises a hand and rubs the back of his neck, sheepish.

“ _Mama, estoy bien,_ ” he tries, and she shakes her head, clucking her tongue and stomping off the porch towards him.

She grabs his chin, tilting his head back and forth the same way Indira had, if a bit rough. She clicks her tongue again, shaking her head. “ _Tu cara…_ _¿Una nariz rota? ¿Qué voy a hacer contigo? Cada vez que doy la vuelta, te lastimas ... Es como si tuvieras tres años, tratando de subir al horno de nuevo.”_

“I didn’t climb into the oven, Mama,” Lance says, amused.

She smacks at his shoulder. “You might as well have! Every day, I wake up and I wonder, ‘What is Lance going to get himself into today?’ You get into more trouble than Hugo!”

“I don’t try, Mama!” Lance protests. “It just happens!”

“I’m going to stick you _en una burbuja,”_ she mutters. “You are a magnet for trouble, Lancito.”

 _“Lo siento, Mama,”_ he murmurs, and she sighs, pursing her lips at him for a moment before softening and pulling him into a one-armed hug.

“You are too tall,” she grumbles, and pulls away to poke him in the stomach. “And too skinny! Like a string bean. Someday you will get into trouble too big for you and it will snap you in half!”

Val snickers, and Maria rounds on her.

“And you! Sending me _una foto,_ and barely half of an explanation—was that supposed to make me feel better? _¡Tu hermano parecía como si hubiera sido atropellado por un auto!”_

She continues scolding them both, switching between English and Spanish, until they’ve both shrunk small enough that Lance feels as though he’s somehow shorter than his five foot nothing mother, despite being well over a foot taller than her. Hugo continues to chew on his chubby fist, unfazed by the whole thing.

Once she’s scolded them to her satisfaction, she sets them to work in the backyard, weeding the garden and picking green beans, watching them from a rocking chair on the back porch while she feeds Hugo a bottle.

“This is your fault,” Lance grumbles at Val, low so that Maria won’t hear.

“ _My_ fault?” Val hisses. “You’re the one who thought going for a walk at 3am was a good idea!”

“Are you fighting, _niños?”_ Maria calls, warning clear in her tone.

“No!” Lance and Val call back in unison, glaring at each other.

By the time they’re finished, Maria has long since escaped into the air conditioned house, and Lance feels like his spine might be permanently hunched from bending over. When he straightens, his back cracks audibly, and he groans.

Val copies him, back cracking just as loudly, and sighs.

“It could be worse,” she offers. “It could be like the time she found out we’d snuck out to go to that party at Ricky’s.”

Lance shudders at the memory. “Okay, we got off easy. But I think my good posture is officially shot.”

“What good posture?” Val answers, and he shoves her, laughing when she stumbles over a bean plant and falls on her ass in the dirt, even when she starts cussing at him in Spanish and chasing him around the yard.

He got lucky, to have a family like this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> ¿Que estabas pensando? Val me llama, diciendo que estabas en una pelea, ¡a las cuatro de la mañana! ¡Fuiste al hospital y lo escuché de tu hermana! ¿No puedes llamar a tu madre? ¿No puedes decirme que estás bien? ¡Casi tuve un ataque al corazón! ¡Me matarás con esto, Lance!  
> "What were you thinking? Val calls me, saying you were in a fight, at four in the morning! You went to the hospital and I heard it from your sister! You can't call your mother? You can't tell me you're okay? I almost had a heart attack! You will kill me with this, Lance!"
> 
> Mama, estoy bien.  
> "Mama, I'm fine." 
> 
> Tu cara...¿Una nariz rota? ¿Qué voy a hacer contigo? Cada vez que doy la vuelta, te lastimas ... Es como si tuvieras tres años, tratando de subir al horno de nuevo.  
> "Your face...a broken nose? What am I going to do with you? Every time I turn around, you hurt yourself...it's like you're three years old, trying to climb into the oven again." 
> 
> I’m going to stick you en una burbuja.  
> "I'm going to stick you in a bubble."
> 
> Lo siento, Mama.  
> "I'm sorry, Mama." 
> 
> ¡Tu hermano parecía como si hubiera sido atropellado por un auto!  
> "Your brother looked like he'd been hit by a car!"
> 
> I used Google Translate for mostly everything, so if there are any mistakes, let me know.


	9. kiss me (again)

Lance calls Keith that night. It's somewhat overdue--he hasn't really texted him at all since the day before, which is unusual, and he has a few messages from him asking if anything's wrong. 

"So, first of all, I promise I wasn't ignoring you," Lance says as soon as Keith answers. "I annoyed my mom enough that she had Val and I working in the garden all day, and my phone was dead because I stayed at Val's and I didn't have my charger." 

"What the hell did you manage to do to invoke your mom's wrath?" Keith asks, tone teasing and not a little amused. He sounds unruffled by being suddenly assaulted with Lance's babbling, which makes Lance feel terribly fond.

"Right, that's the second thing," Lance replies, and grimaces, because he knows exactly how Keith's gonna take this and it's not gonna be good. "So, funny story..."

"Oh, no," Keith says, amusement gone. 

"No, no, it's fine! Really, not a big deal,  _at all."_

"That's not at all reassuring, Lance." 

"See, what happened is--I went on a walk in the middle of the night, like you do--"

"No? I really don't?"

"Shut up, I'm telling a story--and yes, you do, that's how we ever met in the first place, dude--anyway, I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going, and I ended up in the trashy part of town where all the bigoted angry white people live, and guess who I ran into!"

"This just keeps getting worse," Keith complains. 

"Bobby West! From school! And yes, he still is just as homophobic and awful as he always was!"

"Did he do something?" Keith asks, and  _whoa,_ suddenly all traces of teasing are completely gone, and Lance is taken aback by the concern and anger in his voice. He shouldn't be, but--yeah, he's still not used to people being worried about him. "Lance, did he do something to you?"

"He may have punched me a little," Lance admits. Keith growls. "It's  _really_ no big deal. I put him on his ass in the dirt, and then went home and drove myself to the ER--"

"Lance, what the fuck--"

"That sounded bad, didn't it? He broke my nose, he didn't like, stab me or anything. Oh, and my wrist is sprained."

" _Lance--"_

"No, nope, I've already heard this lecture three times from three different people, I'm good. I didn't tell you so you'd worry or freak out, I told you so you'd do the  _opposite,_ because I figured it wouldn't go over well if I showed up to our next date with two black eyes without warning."

Keith is quiet for a moment. Lance bites his lip, struggling not to regret every choice he's ever made and hating that he can't see Keith's face to know what he's feeling .

"I'd wrap you in bubble wrap and stick you in a box if I thought you wouldn't find a way to get into trouble anyway," he finally says, and Lance laughs. 

"My mom said something similar," he says, grinning. "So..."

Keith sighs. "So, I'll do my best not to freak out when I see you. Or to track Bobby down and break his face." 

"I applaud your restraint," Lance teases.

"You should," Keith grumbles. Then, "When  _am_ I seeing you, by the way?" 

"When do you want to see me?" Lance shoots back, ignoring the bubbly feeling in his stomach. 

"Now," Keith replies immediately, and Lance would like to file a formal complaint because that's not fucking fair-- "I always want to see you." 

Call 911, Lance has been murdered by gay feelings. Turns out, gay can kill after all. 

"Lance?" Keith says, hesitant, and Lance shakes his head, realizing that he's been silent for far too long.

"You can't just  _say_ things like that!" he manages, voice strained and high-pitched. 

Keith laughs. "Does it make you uncomfortable to have your own game turned around on you?" 

"What game? I don't have a game," Lance argues, even though his mind flashes to several memories all at once where he'd said something flirtatious just to make Keith blush. 

"You deserve nice things, Lance. Stop being so surprised when you get them," Keith tells him, and while Lance is still processing, adds, "So can I see you today?" 

And Lance, because he's a gay idiot with no self-preservation and because he's currently still only half-functioning from Keith suddenly being smooth, says, "Yes."

……………….

Keith knocks when he gets to Lance’s house, because apparently he thinks being delayed by Lance’s mother is fun. Luckily for him, Lance thought that he might decide to knock instead of just texting, so he’s been waiting by the front door for the last five minutes and yanks it open himself before his mother can even stand up.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Keith blurts, hand still raised in the air from knocking and eyes fixed on Lance’s torso.

Lance grins. “It’s called fashion, baby.”

He’s wearing light blue high-waisted shorts and a white tshirt with ‘far out’ written on it in block letters, surrounded by little stars and with a comet’s pastel rainbow tail underlining the words. The look is completed by a truly heinous 80’s style patterned windbreaker.

He wouldn’t normally wear something so bold at home, but he’s tired of everyone’s bullshit, and also, you can’t go rollerskating without the proper attire. It’s a crime. The punishment is immediately getting your gay card revoked.

“That jacket is going to blind me,” Keith complains. “It’s so fucking ugly.”

“I _know._ Isn’t it great?” Lance gushes, grinning even wider. Keith just shakes his head and turns to head back down the sidewalk, but Lance can see the telltale twitching of the corner of his mouth that says he’s fighting a smile.

“Does your outfit have anything to do with our destination for the night? The one that you refuse to tell me?”

“Yes,” Lance replies, taking the motorcyle helmet Keith offers him. “It requires a certain aesthetic.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’re expecting me to change?”

Lance tilts his head, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he looks over Keith’s outfit—exactly what he expected from his incrediby predictable boyfriend, which means black jeans, a black tshirt, and a black leather jacket with red inner lining.

“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “You’ll do.”

“Suddenly I feel like I should be fearing for my life,” Keith says, but the affectionate look in his eyes ruins whatever affect he was hoping such a statement might have.

Lance smiles at him and pats his cheek fondly. “Let’s get going, samurai. We’ve got a date to get to.”

…………………………………….

“The Skate Palace,” Keith reads, pulling off his helmet. “You took me to a skating rink?”

“I did,” Lance confirms.

“How long has this even been here? How come I didn’t know it existed?”

“Hunk and I have a conspiracy theory that it’s either a money laundering front or a bridge to the fairy realm. Either way, it’s cool as shit and most of the people that know about it are other closeted gays, which means we can hold hands without worrying about assholes like Bobby.”

“Nice,” Keith says appreciatively. “If it’s a bridge to the fairy realm, should I avoid eating anything?”

Lance shrugs. “Hunk and I have both gotten food here a bunch of times, and we’ve always been able to leave, so I don’t think it’s a problem, so long as you pay for it. Fairies are all about equal exchange and all that.”

“True,” Keith concedes.

Keith’s expression when they step inside the building makes every decision Lance has ever made leading up to this moment entirely worth it. Laughter bubbles from his lips, only made worse by the defeated look Keith gives him, and when he’s gotten his breath back, he grins so wide his cheeks hurt.

“You’re a terrible human being,” Keith complains.

The Skate Palace looks like a portal to the 80’s. It’s dim, lit mostly by the strobe lights over the rink. A layer of dust on the windows keeps most of the light out. The space-themed carpet, with neon prints of planets, stars, rocket ships, and rainbow lightning bolt squiggles, sends everything to a higher level of awesome. Lance has loved it ever since he stepped inside for the first time with Val when he was eleven.

“It smells like stale nachos and sweat,” Keith grumbles, and Lance laces his fingers through his and leads the way forward.

“I would live here if I could,” he announces. Keith shakes his head in exasperation and furrows his eyebrows at the disco ball hanging over the center of the skating rink.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says. “This place is ridiculous.”

“And so, obviously, I belong here,” Lance tells him. “So do you, by association, since you came here on a date with me by your own free will.”

“I was tricked,” Keith argues.

“You’re still dating me, sweetheart,” Lance reminds him, and the flush to Keith’s cheeks makes him smile. He steps up to the counter, offering a greeting to the same bored attendant that he recognizes from literally every single time he’s been here before—which only gives more credit to the fairy realm theory, since the guy doesn’t look like he’s aged a day in the past ten years.

He gives the attendant his shoe size and gestures for Keith to do the same, and then pays the entrance fee and skate rental fee for them both, choosing to ignore Keith’s narrow-eyed glare.

Stepping into the rink makes joy fizz in his chest, excited energy buzzing under his skin, and he has to hold himself back from taking off on the polished wooden floor.

Keith, behind him, is making careful, measured movements, trying to avoid falling as he gets used to the skates on his feet. Lance, impatient as always, grabs the hands that Keith has spread out for balance and pulls him forward, skating backwards in front of him and tugging him along.

“Show-off,” Keith accuses, and Lance lets go, letting him wobble on his own in the middle of the rink.

“I don’t have to help you if you don’t want me to,” he says, smirking, and drifts backwards until he’s just out of reach, crossing his arms. “You think you’ve got it?”

Keith makes a face at him, and then stares back down at his feet, tentatively trying to move forward and muttering curses when it throws him off balance. “I can do it.”

“I believe you,” Lance says, saccharine sweet, and then darts forward to press a quick kiss to Keith’s cheek before skating away, laughing. “But can you catch me?”

“ _Lance,”_ Keith says, face red.

Lance just laughs, and starts for the opposite side of the rink, making sure to show off on the way, spinning around and throwing teasing looks over his shoulder at Keith, who’s following at a sedate pace.

They continue that way for the better part of an hour, with Lance occasionally skating back to Keith just to fluster him even more, but the technique is successful when it comes to getting Keith used to his skates.

By the end of the hour, Keith has finally caught up and pinned him against the wall of the rink, they’re both breathless and laughing, and Lance feels happier than he has in a long time.

There’s hardly anyone else there. A few young teenagers whose parents dropped them off. Two girls who are skating hand in hand, with a third girl following close behind and looking exasperated. The ever-present attendant at the counter.

But Lance is happy, and reckless, and so he doesn’t let himself think twice about leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the corner of Keith’s mouth.

When he pulls away, Keith is smiling at him, looking so incredibly fond that it makes something ache in Lance’s chest.

“Hey,” Lance says.

“Hey,” Keith repeats, softly.

Lance reaches forward and hooks a finger in Keith’s belt loop, tugging him closer. “Hey,” he says again, quieter this time, barely a breath.

Keith’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Hi.”

“Aw, you ruined it,” Lance teases, almost whispering, and Keith tilts his head and just looks at him, and his eyes are warm and Lance wants to stay in this moment forever. “Can I kiss you?”

“Thought you just did,” Keith teases.

“I wanna do it again,” Lance says, and Keith presses forward until their noses are almost touching.

“Then kiss me,” he murmurs. So Lance does.

………………………..

“VAL,” Lance shouts, shoving the door open so forcefully that it crashes against the end table next to it. “I’M HAVING A CRISIS.”

In any other circumstance, seeing his sister yelp and then fall off of the couch in surprise would have made his day, but he’s too busy overthinking everything he’s ever done to appreciate it.

“What the everloving Jesus _fuck,_ Lance?” Val demands, sitting up and rubbing her elbow, face twisted like she just bit into an extremely sour lemon.

“I kissed a boy,” Lance announces, making a beeline for the kitchen and the wine he knows Val has in the fridge.

“So you give me a fucking heart attack?” Val says, standing and following him to grab the wine glasses from the right cabinet, fixing him with a warning glare when it looks like he’s about to drink straight from the bottle. “You’ve been kissing boys for two fucking years. Why are you having a crisis about it now?”

“Because I kissed _Keith,_ ” Lance answers, pouring much more wine into his glass than would be accepted in polite society.

“You’ve been dating for a month.”

“Oh my god, has it been a month?”

Val blinks at him, looking unimpressed, and turns to the counter to pour her own excessively generous glass of wine.

Once she’s done, she turns back and stabs a finger at him. “Sit,” she orders.

He heads back to the living room and sinks onto one side of the couch, staring wide-eyed and disbelieving at his wine glass as he counts backwards—confirming that he has, in fact, been dating Keith for a month.

Val settles on the opposite side of the couch, sipping at her wine and looking Lance up and down, and then she says, “Spill.”

“I took him to the Skate Palace yesterday, and I swear to god that place really is magic, Val, it doesn’t make any fucking _sense,_ and I wasn’t anxious at all like I normally am and I felt so relaxed and happy and awesome, and Keith was there which made it even better, and it was his first time skating but he didn’t want me to lead him around by the hand like they do in every cheesy romcom ever so instead I kissed him on the cheek and told him to try and catch me, and he chased me around the rink and got used to his skates and then he _did_ catch me, and I was happy and he was happy and I kissed him, and he got this look on his face, so I asked if I could kiss him again, and he said yes, so I did, and then we sort of made out against the rink wall until a bunch of teenagers told us to stop being gross. And then we made friends with two lesbians. And then we went home, and I kissed him goodnight and then ran away and now I’m freaking out.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Val says.

“That’s not helpful!”

“Why are you freaking out? You guys are dating. You’ve been dating for a month, which is already longer than most of your relationships last, and you’ve already told me multiple times that you really like him, and this is the longest you’ve ever gone in a relationship without kissing.”

Lance makes a frustrated sound. “That’s _it,_ though. I really like him.”

“I don’t understand the problem,” Val says, voice flat.

“I don’t wanna mess this up!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Val groans. “You’ve gotta get over this, little bro. He likes you, you like him, and if you keep going in this relationship terrifed that you’re going to fuck it up, you’re only going to put the both of you through hell.”

Lance wrinkes his nose at her.

She rolls her eyes. “You know I’m right.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Lance counters, and sips his wine. “I haven’t talked to him.”

“What, at all? Have you just been going on dates in total silence?”

“Oh, fuck off. I haven’t talked to him about the shit I told you about,” Lance clarifies.

Val shoves her foot against his face, ignoring his indignant spluttering. “ _Dumbass._ Why not?”

“Because I’m stupid and I’m afraid of how he’ll react,” Lance admits. Val sticks her toe in his ear, and he yelp, shoving his face against his shoulder and shying out of the reach of her ridiculously long legs. “Stop doing that!”

“This is why you’re freaking out?” she asks. “Because you made out with him before having your big talk?”

“Yes?”

“Lance, that’s literally every relationship you’ve ever had.”

“Ouch,” Lance says.

“Am I wrong?”

“Okay, no. But none of the relationships I’ve had have been serious. They haven’t been _Keith._ ”

“That’s fucking gay, Lance.”

“Eat me.”

“No thanks, I’m not into vore.”

“Eugh— _why,”_ Lance whines. “I didn’t need that.”

Val rolls her eyes, leaning forward to set her wine glass on the coffee table. “Keith cares about you, Lance. Obviously. And he knows something happened, and he knows you’re not exactly the pinnacle of mental and emotional health. He’s not gonna run if you tell him the truth, and if for some insane reason he does, I’ll kick his ass for you.”

“If he was smart, he’d run,” Lance says, and Val backhands him in the chest hard enough to knock the breath out of him and make some of his wine spill onto his hand. “ _Ow._ What the fuck, Val?”

“News fucking flash, dumbass— _you are not the only one with issues._ Everyone has issues! I have issues! Indira has issues! Keith has issues! Every single goddamn person living in this shitty ass fucking world has issues, and having them doesn’t make you unworthy of love. Stop it with that bullshit. You’re not some unlovable monster because you’ve been through shit; you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known and _you deserve nice things._ Including love.”

“That _hurt,”_ Lance complains, and Val glares at him. “Yeah, okay, I get it. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How’s your elbow?”

“Shut the fuck up and drink your wine. I’m putting in Gilmore Girls.”

“Which season?”

“Five.”

“Fuck yeah.”

………………………….

Lance knows, objectively, that communication is the foundation of a healthy relationship. 

He also knows that he's not communicating with Keith the way he should be. It should be easy enough--sit down, clear the air, put everything out there. He's done it dozens of times before with friends and short-term relationships. His philosophy has long been that it's best to just put everything onto the table. 

But for some reason, he keeps avoiding it, even after multiple conversations with Val telling him to get his head out of his ass and get it over with.

He can guess what's different this time—this isn't short-term, or a friend that he's known since childhood. It's Keith. What they have isn't the same as the other relationships Lance has had. It's real, and deep, and right now it feels very, very new and very, very breakable.

Which is probably just another reason he needs to get on with it and talk to Keith about everything that's been bothering him, because one of the easiest ways to ruin a relationship is by keeping secrets. 

Ugh. 

 **lanceylance:** hey can we talk? nothing bad i just got some stuff i wanna tell u in person

 **kogayne:** Yeah sure. Do you want me to come over?

 **lanceylance:** i'll break u of proper texting grammar if it kills me

 **lanceylance:** and no i'm kinda outside ur apartment already

 **lanceylance:** let me in?

He looks up from where he's leaning against the metal railing as the door opens, and smiles--it feels easier to summon to his face than a grin, even if he is genuinely happy to see Keith. Because there's that happiness, and then there's the anxiety churning in his stomach that's making his brain buzz with restless energy.

"Did you walk here?" Keith asks, brow furrowed in confusion. 

"I was at Val's," Lance replies, stepping through the doorway. "'S not so far." 

"I would've picked you up," Keith says, and that settles the restless energy a bit. Just hearing it.

"I know," Lance says, offering another smile. "But I needed to clear my head. Walking's a good way to do that." 

He lets himself fall onto the futon, sprawling his limbs across it so he takes up almost the whole thing. At Keith's pointed look, he sighs dramatically, and scoots over, giving him room to sit down. 

"So," Keith starts. Lance tilts his head to look at him. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

And the full force of the anxiety energy is back. Fuck off, brain bees. 

Lance blows out a breath, and pulls his limbs in towards himself--he doesn't curl up into a ball, although he kind of wants to. Instead, he folds his legs pretzel-style in front of him, and rests his hands on his ankles. Marginally better. 

"Well, first--you might've noticed this, but I'm kind of a bit of a mess?" Lance starts, and Keith raises an eyebrow.

"Are you referring to the problems with emotional vulnerability you mentioned or the fact that you like pineapple on pizza?" he asks, and Lance throws a pillow at him, smiling at the laugh he startles out of Keith. 

"Fuck you, pineapple on pizza is great. And the first. Mostly. There's other things. But currently it's the first," Lance says. 

Keith tucks the pillow between the side of the couch and his hip, where Lance can't reach it. "You're rambling," he notes. "Serious talk, then?"

"Yeah, but it's not bad," Lance reassures him. "Well, it's not  _you._ I've just got some stuff—well, things I want to explain, and in my experience it's best to put everything on the table instead of bottling things up? So. Here I am." 

Keith blinks at him, tilting his head, almost like a cat. "You're nervous." 

" _Yes,"_ Lance gasps. "Oh my god, so nervous. Well, anxious. I feel like there's a swarm of bees under my skin. Or like I just chugged three energy drinks and chased them with a handful of caffeine pills."

"Do you want to try and calm down first? I have a laptop, and I just bought Netflix, so—"

"Oh my god, you bought Netflix?" Lance asks, sidetracked. "You've come so far, Keith. You're actually joining society in the 21st century."

"Lance," Keith says, and Lance shakes his head to clear it.

"Right, sorry. I haven't taken my Adderall today. Anyway, that's a really sweet offer and I wanna hug you for it but also I think it's better to just get this out there? The anticipation is making it worse. But after? Maybe? If you still want to." 

"Sure," Keith agrees, easy. "Is this fine, or do you want me to sit closer, or hold your hand, or...?"

"Undecided," Lance replies. "Fine for now. Um." He breathes for a second, trying to calm himself down before he triggers an anxiety attack, and wraps his hands around his ankles to ground himself. "So you already know some things. I gave you the cliffsnotes version at the beginning of all this—the emotional vulnerability issues, the fact that I haven't been in a long-term relationship in over a year, etcetera, etcetera. But you don't really know, like, the—the reasons behind any of it? I mean, the emotional vulnerability thing; that's been there for a while, some of it was from you—no offense, you just were kind of an asshole—"

"I was," Keith agrees. "Sorry again."

"You're forgiven. Anyway, I thought I'd explain," Lance continues. "Ah—part of it has to do with the scars. Actually a lot of it. Most of it." 

Keith sits up straighter at that, looking vaguely alarmed. "Lance, you don't have to—"

"No, no, I want to," Lance says. "You deserve to know." 

"Oh---okay, but, you don't have to tell me because you feel, like, obligated or whatever? I want to know, sure, but I don't have to. Especially if it's going to drag up bad memories for you," Keith says, and Lance loves him a little.

Okay, a lot.

"It probably will," Lance admits. "Drag up bad memories. But I still want to tell you, so shh. Also please don't interrupt; I just need to...get it all out, first. You can ask questions after, if you have any." 

Keith nods, and Lance sighs again, and then turns himself on the couch so he's facing Keith fully, although he stares down at his hands in his lap instead of looking at Keith.

"So, in high school I was like, severely depressed," Lance starts. "And also there was the ADHD and the anxiety, and all of it together is. Not a great mix. I was a disaster. I still am? A lot of the time? I'm better, so. At least there's that. Progress has been made. Anyway. The summer after senior year was when I started more actively trying to get my shit together, mostly by admitting to my family and friends that hey, guess what, I'm really not okay, and I started therapy, too. I still go during the school year, because it's free through the university, so why not take advantage? But that—it was good. And then college started, and I was a mess there, and I actually had a really hard time making friends because I felt like I couldn't connect with anyone? Which was also when I had my sexuality crisis for real—like, I'd always known, but I hadn't acknowledged it, and then I did and I freaked out. And Hunk was the first person I told, and he went, 'Hey, me too,' and we joined the campus LGBT club and it was awesome and we met Matt and Allura and Hunk started dragging Pidge along because he'd met her in one of their shared geek classes and everything just sort of fell in place from there? Um."

He sighs again, because he keeps derailing his own story. He really should've asked Val to drive him to grab his Adderall. "I dated a few people casually. Got cheated on, once, which wasn't fun, but we'd only been dating for maybe three weeks and it wasn't really serious so I didn't get super busted up about it. And then I met Levi in October.

"He and I were...not very much alike. He was the quiet type, super shy, but really, really sweet. He cried when we held hands the first time, which was surprising but also adorable. And—and we took things slow, but it was going somewhere. I probably would've been happy spending the rest of my life with him, if I'm honest, although I don't know that we had the type of relationship people would write epics about. It was—it was good. 

"We dated for three and a half months, which probably doesn't seem like much, but it was long enough. And then in—”

Lance breaks off, closing his eyes and biting his lip to ground himself, trying to keep his emotions in check. Keith shifts, but doesn’t grab at him or interrupt, which Lance appreciates. He takes a deep breath and starts again.

“In January, we went to a gay club for New Year's, with some of our friends. We left early because Levi wasn't really a fan of crowds, and decided to take a walk around the block. There was a 24-hour cafe that was still open a few streets away that we were planning on going to. But we never made it there." 

He takes another deep breath, closing his eyes again for a second, and opens his mouth, but can't say anything. Keith shifts a second time, moving closer with a questioning look on his face, and he shakes his head in response to the unspoken question, rubbing his knuckles across his forehead. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Um. We were—we thought we were alone. The street was empty. We could hear some people nearby, but they weren’t looking at us, so we figured it was fine, and we'd just come from a gay club and it was New Year's and we were in love, and we—we kissed. No big deal if it was a straight couple, right? It was just a kiss. But some assholes saw us, and decided they couldn't leave us alone." 

Keith is silent. Lance doesn't dare look at his face—doesn’t want to see pity there. 

"I made Levi run for help," he says, quietly. "He didn't get hurt, but he—he thought it was his fault, because he'd initiated the kiss, and he couldn't stop blaming himself. Seeing me just reminded him of that—made him feel guilty and like a coward because he'd ran, even though I'd made him. And we were both—not okay afterwards. We tried, and I think the reason we didn't end it sooner was because Levi would've felt even worse just leaving me while I was still recovering from something he felt was his fault. I don't know. But we broke up, eventually. Or—or fell apart, really. Right before Valentine's Day, actually. Which was awful, I'm not gonna lie, and the whole thing fucked me up  _a lot._ It took me almost six months to get comfortable with touch enough to let my mom hug me. My  _mom._ I felt really bad about it, but—like I said, everything was a bit fucked. And that wasn’t even the end of it, because of course it wasn’t.

“Levi and I tried to keep contact, because we did still care about each other, even if we’d ultimately decided we were better off if we weren’t together. He wasn’t really—doing well. Just because he didn’t get hurt physically didn’t mean the whole experience wasn’t traumatic for him, too, and a lot of people didn’t understand that, which made it hard for him to talk about. He got reckless. Started up with a bunch of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Got into some shit. We all tried to be there for him, but he didn’t want to let us.”

Lance hesitates again, feeling choked, because this is the part that always hurts worse to talk about. The words never want to come out. “He OD’d in a club bathroom last May. It wasn’t premeditated suicide, from what anyone can tell—he was drunk, and he got caught up in wanting to feel something other than pain, and he mixed a bunch of party drugs with the alcohol and all of it together killed him. His parents made it fairly clear that they blamed me at the funeral, and I believed them for a long time.

"After that, I didn't really feel comfortable with serious relationships. It felt like I'd be punished for letting myself love someone—which is stupid, I know, and I've talked about it in therapy, extensively, but the feeling doesn't go away easily. And yeah, I've healed, and I've gotten better since then both mentally and emotionally, but I don't think I'll ever really be over it? Like, I was a mess before, and that just made it worse. I'm constantly paranoid and anxious all the time and I have nightmares and panic attacks and, and—I’m never going to be normal, you know? I've got a lot of baggage. And I wanted to give you fair warning and also the chance to back out before we get really deep into this because you deserve way better—way more—than I'm capable of giving you. So I—yeah. Yeah, I guess that's it. Um." 

His shoulders have curled in on themselves while he talked, so that he's hunched over himself, and he twists his fingers together, still too scared to look up and see the expression on Keith's face. 

Part of him is intensely, miserably certain that Keith's going to do exactly what he suggested and leave again. He hates how much he hates the thought of it. He's gotten too attached already.

But Keith—he moves, and Lance isn't sure where he's going because he still can't look but he can hear cloth rustling, and then he's sitting in front of Lance and grabbing his hands to tug them apart and keep him from tearing at his nails or something stupid like that. 

"Hey," he says, and his voice is so  _stupid soft._ Lance wants to punch him. "First of all, thank you so much for telling me. I know it wasn't easy for you, and I'm glad you trust me enough to share something like that with me. 

"Second of all—what the fuck, Lance?" 

Lance looks up at that out of sheer surprise, forehead crinkled, and finds Keith looking an incredibly odd mixture of pained, sad, angry, and exasperated. 

Mostly exasperated.

"You—how could you ever—why would—ugh!" Keith groans, and pulls one of his hands away to yank on the end of his hair, like he always does when he's frustrated or unsure of how to say something. "Where did you get the idea that I'm not a huge fucking mess too?" 

Lance just stares at him, surprised. He thinks he might be a little bit frozen. 

"I spent two years by myself, Lance. I met people, yeah, and there were places I visited more than once, but I didn't bother to keep in touch with anyone. I spent  _six months_ in a  _shack_ in the middle of the  _desert._ By myself! I had no contact with any other human beings for  _six months._ And then I started traveling again and it was even worse than before because I knew that I  _wanted_ a permanent place to stay but that I didn't have anywhere that felt like home and then I realized that the closest thing I'd felt to home was when I was with you doing stupid shit and probably falling in love so I came back and—and you were  _here._ It was like the universe had finally decided to stop piling on the shit and give me something good for once. Just seeing you, that was—it would've been enough, but I wanted to apologize, at the very least, and then I did and  _you gave me a second chance._ Do you realize how many people have done that for me in my life, Lance? I can count them on one hand. And I've been trying really hard because I don't  _want_ to be an asshole and I definitely don't want to hurt you, but I still don't see how you ever could have looked at me and  _not_ seen that I'm a huge disaster? 

“You have baggage, but so do I. So does everyone. It doesn’t scare me. And what the fuck do you mean, I deserve better than you? There isn't better than you. And if somehow there was, I wouldn't want it, because I want  _you._ It's always been you for me, Lance, and—and, fuck, I'm yelling at you after you just poured your heart out to me. I'm an asshole." 

He kind of looks like he expects Lance to yell back, grimacing and glancing down at their hands like he can't believe Lance hasn't yanked his away, but Lance just gapes at him for a second, and then he shakes his head and gasps quietly and laughs, probably a little hysterically.  

"You—you  fucking—oh my god," he says, and Keith looks vaguely alarmed.

"Lance? Are you okay, did I—I know I shouldn't have yelled, I'm sorry—"

"You—you  _jerk,_ " Lance says, shaking his head and still laughing a bit. "You didn't do anything wrong, you asshole. How am I supposed to believe you when you say you're a mess when you always manage to tell me the exact right thing? I'm trying to be mature and responsible and communicate properly like a good adult and you just had to show me up.  _You._ The guy that just freely admitted to being a desert hermit for half of a year."

"Well," Keith says. He still looks dazed, like he just got struck over the head by an anvil. "It did give me a lot of time to work through my shit." 

Lance shakes his head again, and leans forward until his forehead rests against Keith's shoulder, twisting his unoccupied fingers into the material of Keith's shirt. "I was trying to give you a fighting chance, you know that? Most sane people would run screaming in the other direction after all that." 

"I never said I was sane," Keith murmurs, and Lance laughs again—this time, it's shaky and a bit wet, because wow, suddenly there are tears in his eyes. "Are you crying?" 

Lance sniffles. "No." 

"You're totally crying."

"I'm emotional, shut up," Lance says, and Keith laughs, rubbing his hand in soothing circles between Lance's shoulder blades. "This is not how I expected this to go, you know?" 

"Well, get used to it," Keith replies. "I'm planning to stick around for a good long while. You're gonna get sick of me." 

Lance shakes his head without lifting it from Keith's shoulder. "Never," he says, and Keith's hand pauses for a moment. 

"You're a jerk too, you know that?" he says, and now  _his_ voice sounds thick, so Lance sits up, and Keith looks annoyed and vaguely angry and also has tears in his eyes.

"Oh my god," Lance says. "Oh my god, you're crying."

"It's your fault!" Keith accuses, and Lance laughs wetly and pulls him into a proper hug and they sit and hold each other and cry. 

And then they use up almost all of Keith's very limited stash of tissues to wipe their faces, and then he pulls out his laptop and they move to the bed and watch Moana, because Keith has never seen it and that's an awful, terrible crime that needs rectified immediately. 

And then at the end of Moana, Keith admits that he's actually never seen a lot of Disney movies, especially the more recent ones, because he just never got the chance, so of course they have to have a movie marathon, and Lance decides to make a night of it after Keith says he can sleep there. 

Later, when Keith's run to the bathroom and his laptop is paused on the image of Flynn Ryder with dozens of swords pointed at his face, Lance pulls out his phone.

 **lanceylance:** so i told him

 **valkyrie:** nice. how'd it go?

 **lanceylance:** we both cried bc we're huge gay babies and now we're watching tangled together

 **valkyrie:** wow. gay. use protection

 **lanceylance:** VAL. 

 **valkyrie:** bro don't even i know way more about your sex life than i ever wanted to 

 **valkyrie:** jokes aside, i'm proud of you. and I'm glad it went well

 **lanceylance:** i'm gonna stop you there bc if u make me cry again i'm coming to ur house and shaving ur cat

 **valkyrie:** kinky

 **lanceylance:** BYE

Keith comes back then, and Lance puts his phone away. 

They watch movies for way longer than they probably should. And then, after everything's been said and done and Lance has changed into sleep clothes and the couch is right there and perfectly empty and comfortable, Lance takes a deep breath and climbs into the bed next to Keith instead.

"Is this okay?" he asks, and Keith nods frantically and then opens his arms, so Lance takes that for the enthusiastic yes it is and tucks his head against Keith's chin.

He falls asleep faster than he ever has in someone else’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you might've noticed i updated the chapter count, and yes, you read that right, folks, only one more chapter to wrap this baby up. hopefully i'll finish it sometime in the next week or so. my goal is to get this done before classes start to take up all my time again.   
> thanks to everyone that's still hanging in there after all this time! the end is finally in sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Come check me out on [tumblr](https://jostxnneil.tumblr.com/).


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